Ruined Beyond Redemption
by snarkmcsnark
Summary: Nick Amaro thinks he can save the whole wide world. But one evening, the tides turn, and he shoots and cripples an unarmed 14-year-old boy. He risks losing his career, but nothing hits as hard as when his character is called into question. He may want to save the world, but can he save himself?
1. Ruined

_**AN**_ _: This story will be my attempt to save the character of Nick Amaro. It starts at Amaro's One-Eighty, which, as the title of the episode suggests, is when Nick's trajectory starts to go off the rails. My plan is to write my own version of the season sixteen finale, but we still have a long way to go (and lots of Nick angst) before we get there._

 _It chronicles the regret and guilt that he struggles with after the shooting and his endless pursuit of the normalcy and stability he once had in his life. Seeking comfort in those who haven't abandoned him, he deepens his friendship with Olivia Benson, and explores a new kind of relationship with Amanda Rollins._

 _So expect rollaro (but be prepared for slow build-ups and actual payoffs); you can also expect some bensaro friendship (if he helped her to grow and vice versa, then damn right I'm going to show it)._

 _I chose to write this in second person perspective because I've been inspired and influenced by the works of lucyspencer and cheertennis12, who do justice to Olivia and Amanda's voices respectively. I hope I can do the same for Nick._

 _Please read and review._

* * *

 **Ruined Beyond Redemption**

 **1\. Ruined**

* * *

All it takes is one moment to change the course of your life forever. One choice – stay or go – creates a ripple effect that intensifies into a tidal wave. You can see the swell of the tide from the distance, but you don't move. You can't. Not when your feet are cemented to the ground and your eyes are forced open to watch every stone thrown, every bullet fired, every lie hurled in your direction.

Your entire life has been this game of dominoes, where you carefully construct and arrange a series of monochrome blocks. Since you were compelled to 'man up' at 15, it became your self-appointed duty to do right by your family. And although, there were moments you slipped - moments you showed you were only human – you thought, for the most part, you had done them proud. But those missteps still nagged you. Whether it was disappointing your mother or having your sister blame you for being the driving force of your father's departure, your failures orbited around this natural predisposition to protect women.

The night of the shooting was no different. The female officer rushed the suspect and sustained a gunshot wound to her leg. Had it been a male officer, would you have covered him? No question. But there exists this mystery of whether or not you would have done _anything_ differently had you followed a male officer. _Anything_ could have made the difference. Trying to figure that out has been tormenting your every waking thought since the shooting.

You had done what you thought was right. Everything that happened from the second you entered the hallway and heard Officer McKenna's outcry, to the second you pulled the trigger. There was no hesitation when it came to trusting the instructions of your department. You followed your training.

" _And yet God didn't give you the results you expected or deserved."_

Two and a half years in Special Victims, eight years before that in Narcotics and Warrants – your entire career has always been about dotting your Is and crossing your Ts. Yet, when you turned the corner and found a 14-year-old kid on the ground, your gut turned and your conscience started doubting everything you've ever learned. Something was out of tune, but you had no time to waver. Quick thinking prevailed when you grabbed a card from your wallet and applied it to the boy's chest wound.

The small voice in the back of your head implored you to apologize; after all, it had been your bullet fired from your gun that had caused his injuries. But you knew by opening your mouth it meant opening the floodgates to legal ramifications you were not prepared to face then, and you certainly aren't prepared to battle now. It was your training that kicked your ass and reminded you to keep your mouth shut. So, instead, you looked down at Yusef Barre's eyes and silently begged him to stay alive.

" _Nice triage. You saved his life."_

After speaking with your delegate and having the nurse complete your workup and blood alcohol test, you rode shotgun as your partner drove back to the 1-6. Liv tried to put your mind at rest when she told you that spinal injuries aren't always so grim. You almost made a joke about how she's been watching too much Grey's Anatomy. But you stopped yourself when you realized your partner probably wouldn't be spending her rare downtime watching doctors contend with one natural disaster after another. Liv has had enough emotional trauma to endure. She didn't need to be watching the only other thing that could bring your ex-wife to tears besides, well, _you_.

Between wrapping up Lewis' trial and getting promoted to sergeant, Liv didn't need your problems dragging her into your personal hell. _Pull up a chair, Liv, we'll be here a while._ On the drive back, you thought about the joke you never fired. You wondered if the cast on that show still had jobs, considering Maria once told you the executive producer had a habit of axing any actor she disagreed with. If you didn't think about some dumb, medical soap opera, then you'd have to think about the doctors probing around Yusef's spine, trying to dislodge a bullet that would have taken the kid's life either way.

You thought you had every right to be paranoid and to reject Liv's blind faith in medical miracles. Still, even if you disagreed you had no right to snap at her, so you just kept your mouth shut. Besides, nothing you said was privileged, and staying quiet was just another bullet point in the training manual that you had embedded into your brain.

" _I paralyzed a child, father."_

Retracing each step has been your mind's go-to preoccupation. It's just something you've always done. Call it paranoid; call it obsessive. From a very young age, you knew you could never really trust anyone to have your back. Not even family. So you made certain to work hard for what you got, and arrange your life in such a way that you never had to ask anybody for help. Your crosses have always been your own to bear. It was this lone wolf mentality that had allowed you to quickly move up the ranks in Narcotics. You were always independent but you were dependable to the department that you almost believed advocated for you.

You always went to great lengths to show you were disciplined – not some 15-year-old kid from _El Barrio_ who could easily be persuaded to peddle drugs. No, you kept your head in the books. You climbed out of bed before sunup to fill metal boxes with scandal sheets. After eight hours of school and another three hours throwing a ball around the field, you washed dishes and got paid under the table. This wasn't just a 'since-I-became-a-cop' thing. This was your discipline. This was your life.

So, for the last couple of days you replay the night's events like game footage. Every single mistake must have taken root somewhere, must have been triggered by something. And once you found that glitch in the system or that one misaligned domino; you could begin to fix it. You could figure this out and everyone could surrender their pitchforks – IAB, the mayor's office, the media. You just needed to find that one moment when the tracks switched and the train came straight for you.

Your mind flashes back to the precinct basement. There was no ventilation, no fancy gym equipment; just a punching bag and you were good. After Fin told you about the possibility of your partner being transferred out, you threw in a few more sets of aggressive punches. But then, the announcement that she was going to be the squad's new sergeant quelled those hostile thoughts, and you were back to being happy for her. Technically, this meant losing your partner; but Liv was staying and that was all that mattered.

Not long after the congratulatory remarks, the last drops of wine poured into the glasses and Michael Bublé started crooning through the stereo. That was Fin's cue to peace out. Slowly, you veered off from the conversation that shifted from shop talk to brussel sprouts. Liv was so excited when Eileen tipped her off about this garden co-op that delivered a crate of local, organic produce to her doorstep every week. You weren't particularly cut out for trading recipes or discussing the negative aspects of GMOs. Neither was your Captain, but he was clearly too smitten with his date to care about the conversation topic. So, you excused yourself from their circle and found yourself sat on the couch with a certain blonde-haired detective.

" _Don't you get tired of being the choirboy?"_

She said the nickname was a nice change from Saint Nick. It would be your little inside joke, she spoke with doe-eyes and her head lowered and tilted sideways. You aren't oblivious to _whatever it is_ that's been going on between you and Rollins. Ever since you took it upon yourself to sweep into her life – Superman cape and all – to prove that her thirteenth-stepping boyfriend was, indeed, a jackass, the professional became personal.

The two of you were forced to make nice for Liv's sake during the trial. But, ultimately, it was the stress from Lewis' trial and the effect it was having on everyone, especially your partner, which had driven you and Amanda to each other. With every round of beer, things between you two turned from sour to sweet. The lack of communication from Liv during the trial drove you on edge; but you couldn't let her see that; not when you had to be there at a moment's notice to be her dependable partner. _If_ she wanted to depend on you.

It was an Irish bar a few blocks from the precinct. The first time, it was a way to erase the memories of taking the stand and having Lewis cast doubt on your testimonies. The second time, you both ran down a list of excuses until you finally settled on the mutual guilt of failing Liv those four days she was kidnapped. You and Amanda shared a bottle to cloak the bleak reality that Lewis was still alive and still mentally torturing your partner. For the most part, the alcohol worked. Because, looking back, all you could remember from those hazy nights was how Amanda smiled at you from across the booth. And how that smile made you feel normal again.

 _Strictly professional after-hours drinks_ was what you called it. But under the dim lights of the bar and under the influence of liquid amnesia, there were moments when your eyes lingered on each other, when her fingertips brushed up against your forearm, when you felt something you hadn't felt since the last time you were with Maria.

The night you celebrated Liv's sergeant exam, Amanda was treading dangerous territory by flirting with you under your superiors' noses. Sure, they were all on the other side of the room, discussing root vegetables and $400 juicers; but they'd have to be blind not to see the way Amanda's heavy gaze fixed on you. Under almost any other circumstance, you would have flirted back. But you were soberly aware of the other party guests. And your brain kept ticking, reminding you of that entire chapter in the NYPD manual dedicated to the dangers of sexual relations in the workplace.

So, you sat back and smiled politely as you took the empty glass from her hand and set it down on the coffee table. It wasn't your intention to keep track of Amanda's drinks, but it was one of those habits you had formed when you were a kid. There was always a particular number you had to watch out for, and it always depended on what he was drinking. Right before he reached that limit, that was your signal to lie to your mother and tell her your _tia_ from down the street called and said she needed help with the _pastelitos_.

You counted her glasses of wine at four, which was two more than you had that night. Had Amanda been the one to back up Officer McKenna, as she initially asserted, she would have been in an even worse position than you. Her blood alcohol count would have made her unquestionably impaired. Aside from your naturalistic impulse to 'man up' and be the hero, the knowledge of how many drinks she'd had gave you that last extra push to join the hot pursuit.

" _According to my training, I did everything the way I was supposed to."_

Amanda ended up staying with Officer Dragin, using his radio to call in the 10-13. So, that wasn't where you went wrong. You would never have let her run to back up Officer McKenna, so there was no what-if scenario you could work with. It would have never been Amanda in your place.

When was it then? At what moment did the tracks turn? Who pushed the block that sent all the other dominoes crashing into this heap of guilt and self-pity? The game footage replays back in your head, from the first sprint in the direction of the chase to the very last pull of the trigger. And yet, you still can't find that one slip-up, or that one clue to give away the fact that there was no other gun. The kid never fired a shot.

It had taken CSU 24 hours to figure out what you were expected to know in the moment. You were also expected to know that the bullet in the officer's leg came from her own firearm; even after she made the outcry that she had been shot by the suspect. And in spite of the fact that your mind was clear and your reflexes were sharp as ever, your blood alcohol maintained that you were .01 away from being legally impaired.

" _They'll say I shot him because I was impaired or because he's black."_

You picked up the latest issue of the New York Post and flashed it to your partner. Your face was splashed on the front page with the headline, '0.49?! Drunk Cop Cripples Kid'. The longer you stared at the cover, the more reality seemed to sink in and the more you started to swallow libel down as your truth.

Liv tried to encourage you to keep your head above water, but that was rich coming from her considering it was her boyfriend leaking IA files and sandbagging you in the press. It wasn't fair to put her in this spot, where you were pitting yourself against Cassidy. But this wasn't on you. She could blame this one on Tucker.

Bullets sprayed into your house.

You ignored Liv's direction to stay inside; instead you picked up the baseball bat you kept by the front door and marched down the street. Two black teenagers called you out for police brutality; and this pissed you off even more than your current state, because reading about it didn't have quite the same effect as hearing it from the mouths of kids you supposedly despise. If there was any reason for you to hate them, it had nothing to do with the color of their skin, but everything to do with the fact that they nearly killed your mother and daughter.

The new administration hung you out to dry, the press was trying to pin this 'racist kid killer' moniker on you, but in that moment all you saw was blood and revenge. For a split second, you didn't care if you proved them all right. You were fueled by fear and anger over the fact that your seven-year-old daughter was crying in her abuelita's arms. So you egged them on to shoot you. Because, _God_ , anything – even death – seemed more bearable than the awareness of what you were putting your family through.

" _They could have killed my mother, my daughter."_

The bat connected with the metal trashcan, even when all you really wanted was to smash some skulls. Still, in spite of your rage and that split second when you nearly lost it, you were lucid enough not to do anything too stupid that would require your partner to make a call to Homicide.

Liv didn't call Homicide but she did call Tucker; she said it was because she had to. You were surprised he hadn't shown up with Cassidy on a leash, seeing as those two had been pretty much inseparable since you made your case to IA. Still, Liv told you to stand back and let them investigate; even though the bullet holes in your window could tell the whole story. That alone wasn't enough to explain chasing after some lowlifes with a baseball bat. The fact that those boys nearly killed your mother and daughter wasn't enough to justify your rage; and you just couldn't see why everyone else around you was tiptoeing over every little detail and being controlled by the strings of this new administration. _They shot at your fucking house with your daughter inside._

What made you want to swing the bat to your own skull was when Tucker had the audacity to tell you that he would've done the same thing or worse. You scoffed and shook your head because that sentiment meant jack shit to you. It didn't console you or restore any confidence in your actions, because you knew that if Tucker had been in your place and he had done the same thing, he wouldn't have suffered the same consequences. He would have been exercising his right to defend his home and family. The fucker would be receiving a medal for it tomorrow.

" _They're making you the fall guy."_

Your mother suggested you go to church and talk to Father Biobaku. It had been a while since you last attended Sunday mass. You used to attend the service without fail when Zara still lived with you, because she was signed up for that little lamb bible study. But ever since she moved to D.C. and you lived alone, you just couldn't be bothered to peel yourself off the bed on a Sunday morning and explain yourself to the parishioners.

For months you had to deal with questions and accusations about your separation. You had been the fall guy in their eyes – the guy who ripped apart your happy, little Catholic family. After all, it was you who _apparently_ stepped out with that hooker that was murdered in your Captain's bed. You had an illegitimate son ten years ago with the sister of a drug kingpin. You broke the poor, little heart of your beautiful soon-to-be ex-wife who's fighting for this country's freedom. To your old parish, you were the modern-day Judas. The rest of the world is now just catching up to tune in for your crucifixion.

When you talked to Father, you were hoping that by some divine intervention God would speak through him and provide you with answers. Starting with where you went wrong that night. If God were punishing you for divorcing your wife, or thinking about Rollins in a way that would neither please Him nor 1PP, then you were prepared to do your penance.

You wonder if the mud Reverend Curtis and the DA are slinging at you, about this being a case of racial profiling and stopping to shoot, would land and stick. You know you didn't shoot Yusef because he's black. You know you weren't impaired. But the story was painted that way by people searching for a scapegoat. You almost regret sparing no effort on that Alex Muñoz case a few months back; maybe if he became mayor of the city, he wouldn't have turned on a fellow Cubano. Who are you kidding? Barba and Muñoz would have probably tag-teamed to watch you go down in flames.

" _Maybe one lesson you can learn from this is why pride is a sin."_

This isn't little lamb bible study though, and you don't need a moral and legal tornado to nosedive into your life just to teach you a lesson. You get it. Your pride is wounded, and now you know it's a sin. _Hey, God, it's me, Nick, can we move the fuck on?_

You can just picture Maria stabbing your eyes out with a fork for giving her no option but to drag her ass up to Sing Sing for prison visits. You, in an orange jumpsuit, getting visits from your kids every couple of months. You missing out on recitals, ball games, and graduations. And even if you take a plea, you know things will never be the same. You never had the free time to be a PTA parent, but at least you always made it a point to be there for your kids. Now, you just can't imagine going to their schools and not hearing the whispers, "he's a kid killer, a drunk, a racist…"

 _And there goes your fucking pride again._

The couch isn't your bed, but Liv wasn't misleading when she said it was comfortable enough for a night's rest. Hesitantly, you recline on the charcoal grey sofa and the only reason why you feel any discomfort has nothing to do with the furniture itself, but the fact that you are in Cassidy's apartment. Tucker's new pet had disappeared into the bedroom shortly after he bewildered your partner and came home. He calls for Liv through the crack of the bedroom door, but she dismisses him.

Liv isn't done trying to make you feel like a welcomed guest in your new surroundings. She supplies you with a blanket, some towels, and a basket of travel-sized toiletries she saved up from various hotel stays over the years. It's a lot coming from your partner, and all you can do is nod and say 'thank you'.

She crosses the room with a cup of chamomile tea in her hands. "You sure you don't want some? There's still hot water in the kettle."

You shake your head. "No thanks."

"Nick, you're going to be –" she starts to say it, but stops herself. "We're going to figure this out."

It sounds like she was going to tell you that you would be 'fine' and that things would return to normal. But she catches herself midway through her lie and changes her mind. Neither one of you are oblivious enough to believe you're getting out of this completely unscathed. The damage to your professional and personal reputation has landed and it stuck.

"If the blanket's not warm enough, the linen closet's down the hall. We got these wool throws from Pottery Barn that just don't match the sofa, but you're welcome to use –"

"Liv, I'm fine," you assure her with a forced smile. She can't say it, so you 'man up' and lie about being fine.

She purses her lips before she turns on her heel and heads down the hallway. "Good night."

"Night."

You lay awake, staring at the ceiling. It has nothing to do with the hushed bickering you can hear through the thin walls of the apartment. With an address on the Upper West Side, you figure developers would actually invest those exorbitant rent prices into some noise insulation. But, like a lot of things in this part of town, people seem to be more interested in the amenities of the building and the quality of stone on the countertops.

No, you lay awake because your mind and body won't allow for sleep. It's most likely the adrenaline from the evening's earlier events involving gunfire and baseball bats. But it's this alert state that grants you permission to inadvertently eavesdrop on your partner and her boyfriend's argument. Lights are off, so they probably assume you're dead to the world, or at least knocked out enough not to hear them talking about you.

"How long is he staying?"

"Until it's safe for him to return home."

"Yeah, well, CSU already combed through his living room and front yard. The window should be fixed tomorrow. That means Ricky Ricardo is out of here tomorrow morning."

"Brian," Liv says in a pleading tone that is rare to your ears. "He won't be safe in that neighborhood until after the trial is over… Maybe even weeks after that."

"Babe, you can't be serious?" Brian stops attempting to keep the volume of his voice dialed down. "We can't just be adopting strays left and right because you feel sorry for them." Tucker's pet has the gall to call you a stray; you're almost tempted to go in there and ask him if he's so bitter about this arrangement because his owner forgot to give him a treat.

"He's my partner."

"And I'm your boyfriend," Brian raises his voice. "My name is also on the renters' agreement. 'Sides, you never even ran this by me before you invited him for a fucking sleepover."

"Would you keep your voice down? You could wake him up."

"Hey! I don't care if I'm interruptin' his beauty sleep. This is my place too… and how am I supposed to explain to Tucker that the guy I'm investigating is living in my house?"

"He's staying," Liv responds firmly. There she is, that strong-willed partner you've always known; none of that pleading, whiny approach she just used on her jackass boyfriend. You really don't see what she sees in him. "Besides, you've been gone for the last six days. I didn't think you lived here anymore."

You chuckle and realize this is the first time you've smiled in days. Yes, it's due to a case of _schadenfreude_ , because you're a gossip who was eavesdropping on their little lover's quarrel. But it's still a nice escape from the shitstorm that is your life. It gives you something else to think about that isn't going to be in tomorrow's paper, tearing down your character, calling into question your every move, and making you pick at the scabs of your wounded ego. Their fight keeps you entertained until the voices die down and the light peeking through the doorframe turns to darkness. Your heavy lids fold over your tired eyes as you finally accept the reprieve of sleep.


	2. No Sell Out

_**AN** : Hello. I just want to say a quick thank you to the lovely people who left reviews, faved, and followed this story. I know this isn't the same style as Good Cop, Bad Cop (instant Rollaro gratification) but I hope you guys give it a chance anyway. As I'm writing this, I'm finding that it's very challenging, not only as a writer, but also as a person with strong opinions on issues of racism and the use of excessive force. And as much as I don't want to turn this story into a political statement, I can't help but infuse some social commentary into it just because it *is* so topical. And just because I like Amaro does not mean I will go easy on him. He's not a perfect character, but that's kind of the point of this story - to show his growth (Liv is not the only one who gets to grow, damn it - jk) and his journey to "redeeming" himself. So, please share your thoughts and leave a review. I reread your reviews a hundred times - so thank you!_

 _Chapter title and {lyrics} are from No Sell Out by Common_

* * *

 **Ruined Beyond Redemption**

 **2\. No Sell Out**

* * *

 _{hand by their holsters, close to their toasters}_

People stare.

From the parking lot to the precinct lobby, you lose count at seventeen pairs of eyes glued to you, yet simultaneously averted from actual eye contact. When you barely just make it to the elevator, the small crowd shifts opposite of where you're standing. This direct response is a little overkill considering you don't even have your gun anymore. Yesterday, you surrendered it along with your badge. These cops have nothing to worry about. It's not like you were planning to go off and shoot up the station in an act of wild revenge.

It's not like you want to be here either. You're only showing your face at the request of Captain Cragen and your defense attorney, Rita Calhoun.

When the stifling box arrives at your floor, you step out and hear the collective sigh of relief and subdued chatter just before the doors slide shut. You don't know them and they don't know you; so you convince yourself that you're not going to lose any sleep over what just happened. Upon arriving at the squad room, you don't expect a warm welcome, but at the very least you're hoping for some normalcy in treatment. But you're shit out of luck, because the familiar faces you encounter almost everyday for the last two and a half years are doing that thing where they not-so-subtly glance up from their paperwork to scrutinize your entrance.

If only you could blame it on the small cut on your cheek from this morning's shaving accident; but you know the microscopic wound has nothing to do with the stares. You feel like a zoo animal trapped behind a cage. It's probably one of the worst feelings seeing as you never really enjoyed zoos in the first place; museums were always more your thing. Much to your daughter's disappointment.

"Whoa!" You whip around when you feel something maul into you at what feels like seventy miles per hour. "Hey! Where's the fire?"

"Sorry," Amanda mumbles, pushing an oversized pair of sunglasses up the bridge of her nose.

"You just got here?" you ask, furrowing your brows. Checking your watch for the time, you note that half an hour has passed since your co-worker – rather, former co-worker – should have punched in.

"Traffic."

"Sure," you chuckle, studying her slightly frazzled appearance. "Why don't you just tell Captain that you had to take Frannie to the vet this morning. More convincing."

She raises her extra-large cup of coffee and nods her head. "Thanks for the tip."

"Rough night?" You follow her and lean against her desk as she sets her things down and shrugs out of her coat. She's wearing a blouse you haven't seen before, not that her clothes are something you notice on the regular; but this one's a little frillier than usual. It's the color of rust and it brings out the blue in her eyes. The moment when you notice the way her eyes shine brighter is also when you catch the delicate gold chains dangling from her ears. Maybe, her evening wasn't as rough as the tardiness, sunglasses, and coffee seemed to suggest.

"I should be asking you." She presses her lips together and takes a step forward. Her hand tentatively brushes against your arm, but she pulls away when a uni walks by. "I heard about the shooting. Is Zara okay? Your mom?"

You rub the nape of your neck as you look down on the ground. "Yeah, they're a little shaken up, but she and my mom are at Grand Central right now, waiting for the next train to D.C."

"I'm sorry, Nick," she says with a slight frown. Her eyes soften and it's the first time someone's looked at you all morning without any judgment. Maybe it's pity, but you'd rather take that now than some of the looks you've received lately. "I know how excited you were to have Zara this week."

"Yeah, well, shit happens." You're feeling less than eloquent today, and you wonder if that has anything to do with staying up until 1AM listening to Cassidy's complaints about you being the new roommate.

Amanda laughs nervously. "So did the department put you up in a hotel or something? Your house would be a crime scene, wouldn't it?"

"You think the NYPD is gonna foot the bill, even for the seediest motel in Jersey?" you ask rhetorically, sneering at the utter absurdity of the situation. "Actually, I'm staying at Liv's. Her idea."

"Seriously?" Her eyes widen and her nose crinkles in confusion. "Liv and Brian? That must be awkward."

"Saw him for all of two minutes. Ain't that bad."

"Nick, you know you're welcome to stay on my couch," she offers, bowing her head. A blush creeps up her cheeks and it's actually kind of precious how embarrassed she is. "You'd have to compete for space with Frannie, but –"

"Thanks, Amanda," you say, returning the sheepish smile. "It's only for a couple of days anyway. I swear, Cassidy's already moved my suitcase a foot closer to the door."

"He wants you out that bad?" She laughs.

"Yeah, and I think Liv wants to get back at him for being MIA all the time so she wants to keep me around just to spite him. This morning, she made this organic oatmeal with nuts, flaxseed, and weird dried fruit… I don't know what it was," you try to explain, shaking your head. "Anyway, she made just enough for the two of us. And she blended up some of that green juice with the kale and shit…"

"But you think that stuff is gross."

"Yeah, but Cassidy doesn't need to know that," you retort, turning your mouth up into an impish smirk. "Should'a seen his face when he walked into the kitchen and saw there was no breakfast left for him."

Amanda breaks out into giggles and for that short-lived conversation, you forget about everything else around you that's crumbling to pieces. There are no bottles of alcohol between you to ease any of the awkwardness you both felt when you started _whatever this is_ , but you're still both perfectly content in each other's company. You're grateful for this moment; but it's interrupted when Amanda receives a call from her partner who's telling her to get her ass down to Bellevue so they can interview a suspect.

"Nick, you know, if you need anything… just give me a call, okay?"

You hold onto her gaze and it's sincere. She's not just saying it because she feels obligated to just because she's your co-worker. You nod your head. "Course."

Shrugging into her coat, Amanda pushes her hair from under the collar. As she begins to do up her buttons, your eyes skim over her shirt.

"You look nice."

The blush returns to her cheeks. She knows you've picked up on her dressier choice of apparel. "Laundry day," she says; it's an excuse you don't quite believe but you're happy to let go without further investigation. Amanda mouths a goodbye before she spins on her heel, tosses you a smile over her shoulder, and disappears down the hall.

* * *

 _{us against them, man, that's the culture}_

" _He said just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean I don't have enemies."_

When you first joined Special Victims, the one person in the squad you could really identify with was Sergeant John Munch. You looked up to the man as your mentor – you still do. A lot of people have called you Munch Junior because of your shared quirks and belief in conspiracies. No, you don't believe that JFK's assassination was an inside job or that Armstrong never made it to the moon, but you and Munch are convinced that there's always someone or something gunning for you. Whether it's actually an enemy from days past or the government, you both know to always watch your backs.

Initially, it was this peculiar sense of paranoia that bonded you to Munch, but it was his wisdom that kept you around. It was his mentorship that grounded you and reminded you that beneath all the politics that had muddled this job, there was still some serious purpose to the work you were doing.

"Kid, just make sure I make it home before my bedtime," he used to wisecrack whenever you two grabbed drinks after work. It wasn't often, but you looked fondly at the memories of Munch telling you the stories of yore (as he liked to put it). He went down these elaborate narratives about those years on the force from Baltimore to New York. Sometimes, he went on this introspective spiel about his failed marriages, then asked you how you had survived nine years married to an Italian woman who was trained to handle a gun.

Occasionally, your conversations were interwoven with little nuggets of Munch wisdom. You kept them tucked away in pockets of your brain, ready to retrieve in times like these – times when you could easily benefit from the sage advice of a wise, old Jewish man.

" _You're a good cop. Good cops make enemies."_

You deliver the rundown of your phone call with Munch to Captain Cragen. Your captain doesn't necessarily agree that you should take the plea, but he doesn't dissuade you either. He tells you it's your decision, but he makes it a point to ask you if you've ever thought of life without your badge. It feels like you're one of those cartoon characters that rushes into a scene only to be crushed by a grand piano falling from the sky. The realization hits you hard; and maybe Liv was right about you catastrophizing too early.

All this time, the only possible outcome you've really pictured involves you in an orange jumpsuit, cleaning hundreds of toilets, so you can earn up enough to buy a travel tube of toothpaste from the commissary. You've also thought a lot about how many enemies good cops can make in prison. Your future doesn't look very bright, but now you at least have another option.

If you take the plea, you can move down to D.C., live closer to Zara, and pick up security work. But Captain reminds you that the last part is only possible if this thing doesn't stick; and if you take the plea, you know it will. Admitting to the crime is going to follow you around like a shadow; and your odds of getting hired in any law enforcement or securities capacity is slimmer than the odds of you winning the lottery.

You picture yourself taking your pension and running with it. You could put your house up on the market and downsize; it's not like Maria would be opposed to the idea. She'd be getting at least half of what you stand to make. Your cousin, Frankie, is still looking for a partner to expand his growing franchise of boxing gyms. Sure, it's in Jersey, but it's better than nothing. He had asked you about it before, but you said you were too swamped with work to even think about a side venture. Now, it definitely seems like a possibility – if you end up taking the plea.

It isn't the money that's the issue. Since you were a kid, you were resourceful enough to figure that shit out. It's the job. This goddamn job that you've fallen in love with since the moment you graduated police academy and had that stupid grin memorialized in film. You're sure the picture still hangs in your Ma's house, even when you've tried to steal and hide it for the last 20 years. But she loves it for some reason – says it reminds her of how proud she was to see you on stage making your boyhood dreams come true. But judging from that toothy grin in that picture (you really needed to burn), your Ma wasn't nearly as damn proud as you were of yourself. _You, smug bastard._

What else can you do besides being a cop? What was that one nugget of wisdom Munch said to you a few months after you gained your wings by joining Special Victims? "Don't fall in love with the job, kid. She'll never love you back." You never felt that to be truer than in the last few days when the department was setting you over the pyre like some sacrificial lamb.

Mentally, you run down the list of cases you single-handedly solved, including that big MS-13 bust that got you promoted up to second grade. You're tempted to scream your accomplishments from the rooftop of One Police Plaza, not because you're a smug bastard – although it's true – but because you want to remind them of how much you've given to this job. But now that the administration is under such heavy scrutiny, they need a scapegoat. They need to condemn one individual in order to deflect attention from a systemic problem within the force.

You just happen to be that _lucky_ individual.

" _I wish I could say NYPD looks out for their own. But I'm not gonna lie to you."_

* * *

 _{they shining a light right through my iris}_

The plea takes this down to reckless endangerment and misdemeanor. It also means you're relinquishing your badge and handing in your resignation. It doesn't matter how much you love this job, how much more you think you have to give, or how far your ambition wants to propel you up the ranks. What matters is your family. And you'll be putting them through hell if you fight this charge, so you swallow your pride and your never-give-up attitude for their sake. It's not that you don't have any fight left; it's just you can't permit this farce to continue and destroy what remains of your family.

" _There's a sentiment he should plead guilty to a hate crime."_

ADA Strauss reminds you of this one kid you knew growing up. He always thought he was better than everyone, and it was only because he had a manner of pushing people down in order to push himself up. The two of you engaged in chest-thumping typical of teenage boys, but you never issued low blows like he did. When you came to school one day with a swollen left eye, he made the grave error of calling you a 'pussy' and accusing you of being unable to stand up to your old man. One bloody fist and an afternoon in detention is what it earned you. And even though you stumbled home that evening to receive the belt from your father, punching that jackass was worth every welt and every bruise from that strip of leather.

You can't do the same thing to Strauss as you did back when you were this angry kid on the cusp of puberty. But, fuck, if you weren't tempted to reach over that table and choke him until his eyes ballooned out of their sockets.

The city really wants to reach for the stars with this 'hate crime' charge, don't they? You've seen it coming, especially with all the press coverage on Yusef Barre's story – a promising black kid of immigrant parents. And on the other side of this tragedy there's you, the villain, the _white_ cop. If it weren't so grim to begin with, it's actually preposterous and kind of laughable how they're painting you to be this white male, disregarding the fact that you're at least three-quarters Cuban. But who cares about facts, right?

The media surely doesn't. Then there's also the DA's office, who certainly don't care about the evidence when it doesn't work in their favor. So, you decide right then and there that you won't do it. You're not going to give Strauss the satisfaction of taking the plea for a hate crime. Sure, you want to spare your family from a trial, but there's no way you're going to willingly admit to being a racist. That sort of admission doesn't only affect you; it affects your family and you can't live with yourself knowing they have to deal with the repercussions of your perceived prejudice.

You don't want to undermine the fact that there _is_ racism and bigotry in the NYPD, but for Christ's sake, you're not going to be the fall guy for it. You're not perfect and there are things you've done that you're not proud of, but you've never gone to bat for the team that oppresses people based on their skin color. _Never._

To stand in court and admit to something that makes you sick to your stomach. No fucking way.

" _Do you seriously think you can count on a jury knowing what was in your heart?"_

In the end, you decide to take the chance and make your case to the grand jury even though your defense attorney advises against it. It's the only shot you have without going all suicide-mission on your character. You know who you are and you know what you did. And even after all these days devoted to inspecting every detail and recounting each step, you still stand by your training and maintain that you did everything right. If you believe in it this much, then you just have to get everyone else to believe you.

It's not about getting them to understand why it happened, because you still don't know why. It's about getting the jurors to understand how it happened and how you came to the decision to shoot your weapon. You're sorry it happened. God, you're so fucking sorry. But you just can't take the fall they want you to take.

You'll take responsibility for shooting and crippling Yusef. Was it necessary? In hindsight, no. But you made a call when you perceived that a fellow officer had been shot, and from that moment, you followed protocol to a T. You can own up to that, but you won't confess to a crime you never committed.

Your defense attorney has a point. It's a hard sell to convince the grand jury of your intentions, when the impact you've made resulted in the debilitating injuries of a 14-year-old black boy.

" _I won't admit to something I didn't do. If that's pride, then so be it. The jury's gonna indict me either way."_

* * *

 _{exercise my right to stay silent}_

When your partner texts you that she won't be back for dinner because of a Chelsea party gone awry, you don't think it's odd. It's actually expected. But when she adds that Cassidy's off for the evening, sitting at the apartment and watching the Knicks game, so you two can both order in and pretend to be friends; you have to reread her text at least five times. That one strikes you as odd.

Liv doesn't really care about what you and Cassidy think of each other, but it does work in her favor if her work partner and 'life' partner can at least be civil towards each other. You'll take an implied 'thank you' from her boyfriend when you reply to Liv with your message. _[Rain check. Gotta run some errands]._ Her silence is her resignation and acceptance that you and Cassidy will just never get along.

Under the orange glow of the street lamps, your house looks like an abandoned foreclosed home. Yellow police tape lines around your front yard. The window Cassidy promised would be fixed by today still flaunts cracks and bullet holes. Leave it to the department and your home insurance company to pass the buck on who ends up paying for the damages. It may be a while before this bureaucratic bullshit will settle itself and you can have your window back; so Liv is probably right about getting to keep you for another week or two. _Great fucking news, Cassidy, Ricky Ricardo is here to stay._

The car locks behind you as you make your way to your house. You're not sure if it's glass shards in the grass or remnants of ice from last week's polar vortex that's reflecting light from the ground. Disregarding the potential hazard, you sprint up the steps but freeze in place when you see what's underneath your shoes.

The paint is still shiny so you assume it's fresh. You turn around and look down your street, but it's empty and noiseless apart from the sound of your neighbor's TV, which is always on at an unreasonable volume. Your eyes drift back down to the stoop and the paint that spells out something that would enrage you under almost any circumstance. But right now, it just seems so bizarre and ridiculous that you just stand there and gawk at it.

The red paint spells out 'KKK'. It's in a messy scrawl, which, oddly enough, disappoints you because it isn't done in fancy graffiti lettering. After what feels like a very long minute, you snap out of the trance and the gravity of the tag slowly sinks into your brain. At this point, you've had nearly every possible epithet leveled against you; and if only you were swimming in cash and could afford one of those fancy lawyers, you would probably sue the city for defamation of character. But you're all out of resources and you're all out of fucks to give (you're saving that for the grand jurors). But this epithet – this amateur tag on your stoop – takes the cake for sheer ridiculousness.

It should make you angry to be associated with a group with so much history of hate and persecution, but you just feel so fucking numb to the mud-slinging that you have nothing left in your mind to lose. You're burned out. Stepping over the paint, you head inside the house. You don't even remember why you came here in the first place, but as soon as you close the door, you make your way through the darkness into the kitchen.

Zara's latest drawing is posted up on the fridge and your memory jogs back to the day she came to visit – the day before the shooting. "That's me," she pointed to a little girl dressed in a pink tutu that defied the laws of physics, then her finger skimmed over to two stick figures holding hands. "And that's you and mommy."

What you would give to trade places with the stick figure in your kid's drawing.

You pull the fridge door open and see the takeout boxes from a couple of nights ago. You still don't remember why you came back here, but you might as well make this trip useful by clearing out your fridge. You debate polishing off the last three bottles of beer, but decide against it when the 'drunk cop' moniker flashes across your brain like a blimp in a cloudless sky. As you're reaching into the fridge to dispose of some old takeout boxes, you receive a text from Amanda. _[They're making me go in front of the grand jury tomorrow. Anything you want me to say? Or not say?]_

The house feels cold and suffocating. You have this strange compulsion that comes out of nowhere, coaxing you to get out of there. It doesn't feel like the house you and Maria planned and saved up for. It doesn't feel like the home where you started your family. Nobody lives here anymore; you're not even sure that you do. Rotting chow mein, shattered window, graffiti on your stoop – this is the setting of your own inescapable hell.

At least, for the next few nights, your gracious partner grants you an escape. But there's not a snowball's chance in hell you're driving to Liv's and crashing on the couch next to Cassidy to watch the Knicks game. So you type out a quick message, cross your fingers, and hope that Amanda's a fries and milkshake kind of girl.

 _[Wanna meet up? Diner at 2_ _nd_ _and 106_ _th_ _.]_

You press send and not a moment later, your phone flashes a new message and a promise for a temporary escape.

 _[Be there in 20.]_


	3. Black Butterfly

_**AN** : First, I want to thank the lovely people who left reviews for chapter two. I'm so glad that there are people out there who care about Amaro's character and who are interested in reading something a little more Nick-centric. If you're here for the other characters though, don't worry because once the grand jury is over, those relationships will be further explored. Chapter title and {lyrics} are from Black Butterfly by Odessa. _

_Thank you so much for reading and reviewing and please, please, please let me know what you think. You don't need to be logged on to review. :)_

* * *

 **Ruined Beyond Redemption**

 **3\. Black Butterfly**

* * *

 _{and the house on the corner burned down and now they can see inside, we don't look too happy but I guess we'll make it alright}_

Joe's on Second is an old diner situated right on the border of the Upper East Side and El Barrio. It's kitschy enough to delight the affluent folk who are in search of something cute and authentic, and it's prices and greasy grub are just the kind of things that hit the spot for the working class. Some say the diner looks like a tin can on its side, but you always thought it was more like a ballooned airstream trailer.

As a kid, you saved up your hard-earned cash for a bi-monthly treat of Joe's chocolate malted milkshake. Joe and Joe Junior, the successive owners, were always trying to get you to try the other flavors, but you always stuck by the original. These trips to the diner lasted until the early nineties, back when you thought you were suddenly too cool to be drinking melted ice cream through a straw. The memory of hanging out on stoops, blasting Notorious B.I.G. with your friends makes you cringe; but no piece of nostalgia is more embarrassing than the memories of you furtively brooding to Nirvana in your bedroom.

But, eventually, you grew up and you realized your masculinity or whatever imagined concept of street cred you had was not defined by whether or not you enjoyed milkshakes. And although visits to Joe's on Second had become a bit of a rarity, it had carved a place in your heart. Nostalgic memories turned into traditional late-night runs for classic fries and milkshakes with your daughter.

It started one night when she was five and she woke up from a nightmare. You tried to console her and told her she could sleep in your room, but neither one of you could sleep; especially not when she suddenly decided to become chatty Cathy at midnight. Maria would've killed you had she found out that you two drove across town after your kid's bedtime. Zara, wearing her pink jacket and matching rain boots over her Little Mermaid pajamas, sipped her first milkshake and declared it to be the best day ever. Until two days later when you took her to the pond in Central Park, where you fed the ducks – and that became her new 'best day ever'.

Zara likes to switch things up. She started with the classic vanilla and strawberry, but now Joe encourages her to let him create these crazy, diabetic concoctions. Everything from Oreos to peanut butter cups to gummy bears goes into the shaker. Then he tops it off with a swirl of whipped cream, rainbow sprinkles, and a maraschino cherry, "because fruits are good for you, kid."

You discourage your daughter from having too many sweets, because you've had your share of sugar highs and crashes. Blame it on your sweet tooth. There's a reason you avoid it when anyone in the squad room offers you a doughnut; once you start it's hard to stop. And no amount of cardio is going to assuage the guilt of wolfing down twenty guayaba turnovers in one sitting. But when your baby girl is looking up at you with those big brown eyes, it's hard to say no to her. So, once every few months, you allow your kid one of Joe's sugar-laden creations. You just make sure you pick up a large black coffee on the way home so you can keep up with her while she's bouncing off the walls.

Even now, as you're sitting here waiting for Amanda Rollins to arrive, you still go for the old faithful – the chocolate malted milkshake. It's simple and classic. Joe makes a quip about how you need to spice it up a little, reaching over the counter to sprinkle nutmeg over your drink. Covering the top with your hand, you glare at the shop owner. This exchange always happens and it never fails to amuse Zara, who would be giggling right now if she were beside you. She'd be dipping her French fries into her bastardized vanilla milkshake with crushed candy canes and chopped peppermint patties. Then you'd point out that she'd still need to brush her teeth when you get home, even though her breath is 'fresh to death'. Her eyebrows would knit in confusion when she doesn't get the reference, then she'd proceed to call you weird.

 _God, you miss your kid._

The door opens and the January wind breezes into the diner. You turn your head and smile when you see Amanda walk in, bundled up in her wool coat and giant knit scarf that's covering the bottom half of her face. Her pink cheeks peek over the scarf and her eyes scan the booths before she finally finds you seated at the bar. You wave her over and pat the stool next to you.

She shrugs out of her coat and sets it aside as she slides onto the stool. "Hey."

"Hey."

"So, what's good here?" She tilts her head up towards the glowing menu.

"The fries," you answer; at the same time, Joe says, "everything."

Amanda teasingly studies Joe before she glances back up at the menu board. "Hmmm… Get me a cheeseburger, no mayo, and a side of fries."

Joe smiles, nods his head, and repeats the order to the kitchen. She turns her attention to you and sees the unasked question written all over your face. "Yeah, haven't had dinner," she says, shaking her head. "Got called into this party in Chelsea, but it turned out to be more of a drug bust than something in our purview so Narcotics took over the case."

"Ah," you say, remembering Liv's text from earlier this evening. "You usually get this dressed up for drug busts?"

She looks down at her cranberry sweater, dark jeans, and knee-high black boots. "Had plans before I got called in," Amanda replies nonchalantly.

"Plans? Huh?" You nod your head and smirk impishly. "A date?"

"Nah," she says, crinkling her nose and waving her hand dismissively. "Was supposed to meet up with some friends for drinks."

"So you cancelled when you had to work?" You ask, watching her tentatively nod affirmatively in response. "But when the case fell through, and you could've caught up with your friends, you chose to come see me instead?"

"What is this? The third degree?" She raises a brow but a small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "I came because I thought we were gonna talk about what I'm saying to the grand jury tomorrow."

"Right…" you trail off. "Just tell them the truth."

"That's it?" She leans forward and tries to read you, and you wonder if she can tell how burned out you're feeling. So maybe you replied to her message with the pretext that you'd discuss the shooting; but, really, all you wanted was her company. She's done a fine job of distracting you from everything else happening to you and around you, and these conversations with Amanda are helping you keep your head above water. "Nick, you know Strauss is going to bring up your history of excessive force. There are some things I've seen – you know what I'm talking about - that aren't on your record, so I just won't mention them."

"Amanda, I appreciate you looking out for me but you don't need to perjure yourself to save my ass… I got nothing to hide."

She sighs and looks away like she wants to fight you on this, but then she finally lowers her head in resignation. Still, your gut tells you she isn't going to heed your advice and she's still going to do things her way in typical Rollins fashion. But you don't want to push it and tell her what to do, because you don't want to piss her off just before she's called on the stand and asked questions about your character. You want to give her the benefit of the doubt that she wouldn't betray you. But then you remember that big blow-up at the cribs during the Lena Olson trial. And you remember that Amanda has no problem calling you out and insulting your character.

By steering the conversation over to what they found at the party in Chelsea, you get the awkwardness and anxiety of your earlier conversation out of your system. Between bites of her burger, Amanda tells you they walked into a drug-binged orgy. But since everyone was of age and they all claimed it was consensual, there was really nothing for Special Victims to do.

Joe walks by and asks her if she wants a milkshake, and at first she refuses, pointing to the snow outside that's lining the streets. You exchange a look with Joe and laugh, because the weather's never stopped either of you from scarfing down frozen drinks and desserts. When Joe reveals that you've been coming here for close to thirty years, Amanda yields and orders a vanilla milkshake spiked with a shot of espresso.

"You don't even have an espresso machine," you call out, when Joe walks away to start on Amanda's drink.

"I got an Italian Roast; that's the same thing, right?"

You and Amanda exchange a look before you both break out into smiles.

"So, uh, you take all your girls here?" She asks, then her eyes flicker in regret and she tries to backtrack. "I mean, when you were younger… you know, like 25, 20 years ago… when you were a teenager. Not now… No, I'm not –" Amanda raises her hand up and lowers her head. "I'll shut up now."

Biting on your lip to keep from laughing, you cast a look over Amanda's shoulder to see Joe giving you two thumbs up. "Nah, I've only taken one girl here…" you trail off. "Zara."

"Really?" Her eyes grow wide and she leans toward you like it's so damn unbelievable. "Not even Maria?"

"She doesn't do dairy."

"Lactose intolerant?"

Shaking your head, you chuckle softly. "No, she wants to avoid the calories and the hormones in cow's milk." You lean in like you're about to tell her a secret, "just don't tell her that cheese counts as dairy or she'll make you sleep on the couch."

"You were doghoused for being a smartass?" Amanda smirks.

Rasing your glass, you clink it against the milkshake just served to Amanda. "You have just summed up my marriage."

"Good thing I wasn't married to her then," Amanda tells you. "Or else she would've divorced my ass before we even got to the part where I get to kiss the bride."

You purse your lips, look up to the ceiling, and slowly nod your head as you picture the scene Amanda had just described. She punches you lightly on the shoulder, snapping you out of your thoughts.

"Hey, SVU detective, get your mind out of the gutter."

You hold a finger up, close your eyes, and smile as you pretend you're picturing them making out. Okay, so you're not exactly pretending; but she doesn't need to know that. Amanda pokes your rib quite hard and you jerk to the side and nearly fall off the stool.

"I'm warning you."

You raise your hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay…" You gesture over to her ignored milkshake and she sighs before she wraps her lips around the straw. She takes a long sip of her drink, pulls back and stares at it, before she mouths 'wow'.

"You see what I mean?"

She nods her head again before she takes a long drag through the straw, closing her eyes to savor the sweetness. "What the hell, Amaro?"

"What I do now?"

With her mouth still around the straw and her head cocked to the side, her lashes fluttering open to reveal a stunning pair of blue eyes. "You've got me hooked."

* * *

 _{the sun comes up, the sun goes down on the railroad tracks in the middle of town}_

After you and Amanda talk shop and trade police academy stories over fries and milkshakes, you wave goodbye to Joe and step out into the brisk air. You ask her if she needs a lift home, but she says her car is parked not far from where you're standing. Goodbyes are exchanged, and there's a moment when you both don't know if you should hug, so you just teeter forward and backward like those blow up advertising tube men they have in front of car dealerships.

As soon as you think you're done looking like a dork, you and Amanda both realize that you're actually headed in the same direction. But even when you're coming across an idiot, and she's not looking too cool herself, your awkward laughter is strangely comfortable. It's not something you ever thought could coexist – awkward and comfortable – but it works.

"Nick, how are you holding up?" She looks up at you from underneath her bangs. "I mean, with all this stuff being said about you?"

Where do you even begin? But you don't want to end your evening on a sour note, even though it's actually closer to daybreak now that you think about it. "I'm trying to keep it together," you say. "I mean, I'd be lying if I said it doesn't get to me, or doesn't hurt my feelings. But at the end of the day, what I'm going through can't possibly be any worse than what Yusef and his family are going through."

She stops in her tracks and looks at you with surprise. She shakes her head and looks down at the ground before she meets your eyes. "You're handing all _this_ the best way you can given the circumstances." Amanda's hand brushes against your sleeve and your eyes flicker up to meet hers. "I can't say I've ever met a cop who hasn't completely thrown a suspect's character and credibility under the bus to justify a shooting. Until _you_. And we all know you followed protocol, and you don't need to explain yourself to the squad; but, man, the fact that you never deflected blame onto Yusef or even McKenna… I just don't see why anyone else can't see that."

"Hey, look, people can say what they want to say about me. That's something I have to deal with," you say, placing your palm over your chest. "But, Amanda, you don't have to take my burdens and carry them with you. It's just gonna bum you out."

She chews on her lip and looks away, a puff of cold breath escapes from her lips as she sighs. "It's just… It's not fair."

You nod your head. "It means a lot what you said about me handling this… Sometimes, I feel like I'm not doing anything right."

"There's really no right way to deal with what's going on, but I think you're close," she replies. "The department has your hands tied so there's little you can do to defend yourself, and you're still fighting the charges so you can't exactly make amends right now. Throughout this mess, you've kept it together, Nick." Her fingertips press into your arm, as she looks you in the eye. "All that shit they write about in the papers and they say on TV… we know you're not that guy. And I know four people out of like eight million doesn't seem like much, but the squad believes _you_."

You feel like you're swallowing a baseball as the tears start to prick against your eyes. It's something you've known and seen firsthand, with your captain and partner vouching for you since they arrived on the scene. The rest of the 1-6 may not share the same belief, but at least you can trust on the squad to have your back. And to hear all those things from Amanda, just makes you want to wrap your arms around her and thank her for believing you and assuring you that you're not messing this up. She's like the light amidst all the darkness; that outstretched arm that can pull you out of this hole.

You could kiss her right now.

But instead, you take her gloved hand and gently squeeze it. "I really appreciate that, Amanda."

She nods as her hand slips out of yours. Pointing to her car that's parked along the curb, she whispers 'good night' and walks around to the driver's side. You exchange one wistful look before she slides in and drives off into a dizzying vision of light streaks.

* * *

 _{oh the sting of the mother bee burns, but you can't help yourself}_

When you arrive back at the apartment, Cassidy is asleep on the couch with remote in hand and a box of half-eaten pizza on the coffee table. There's an explosion on screen but he just snores louder, like he's subconsciously trying to compete with it. Walking around the couch, you realize that he's watching Fast and Furious 6. This doesn't surprise you; after all, Cassidy seems like the type of guy who would list Vin Diesel as his favorite actor.

You're not sleepy, but the couch is your only territory in this apartment, so you call his name to get his attention. When he doesn't respond the first and second time, you go off to the kitchen and make a bit of a racket. His lolled head snaps up and he jerks around. "Liv?"

Casually taking a sip from your water, you raise an eyebrow. Cassidy's eyes go from wild and expectant to disappointed and annoyed when he sees you.

"Oh, you're still here?" He narrows his eyes.

"Sorry, man." But you're not really sorry because you were actually quite entertained by that. Then it hits you. Cassidy is waiting up for Liv, who isn't home yet even though it's been four hours since you met up with Amanda at the diner. Your partner should have been in bed hours ago. "Liv's not home?"

"No shit, Sherlock," Cassidy mutters, not bothering to turn around to look at you. "Said she got caught up in a case at Chelsea, and she needed to pull an all-nighter."

"Oh."

Cassidy looks over his shoulder and watches you carefully. "You know something I don't?"

You shrug your shoulders and shake you head. Multiple scenarios of where Liv could be flash across your head like film on a projector. One scene sticks out in your memory; it's you walking into her apartment and finding broken furniture, cigarette butts on the stove, and your partner's blood on damn near every surface. A knot forms in your stomach and suddenly you feel like throwing up fries and milkshakes.

"You okay there, buddy?" Cassidy catches onto the blood draining from your face, but there's little actual concern in his voice. "Looks like you could use a Midol."

Glaring at him, you head out of the kitchen and walk towards the bathroom. As soon as you're inside, you dial Liv's number and you tap the sink impatiently as she finally picks up after five rings. You sigh in relief when you hear your partner's voice instead of William Lewis'. But her 'hello's are being drowned out by the noise of a party and some jazz music, and your initial fear is substituted with speculation.

"Nick, everything okay?"

"Yeah, sorry, just got back to your place and I was just wondering where you were."

"Nick, you don't need to check up on me," she says defensively. "Besides, I told you we picked up a case in Chelsea – wait," she says, changing the subject. "It's almost 3AM and you just got back to the apartment? Where have you been?"

"You checking up on me now?" You banter back, trying to bite your tongue from asking the question that really needs to be asked. When she laughs softly in response, and you hear her move to a quieter area in what you think is a bar, you rub the back of your neck and internally debate what to say next. Maybe you should just say it outright and tell her you know she's lying. Or maybe you should pretend to be oblivious to the fact that your partner is sneaking off somewhere with someone who isn't her boyfriend.

Cassidy is on the other side of the door; he's waiting for her to come home. You never liked the guy, but at this moment, you can't help but feel sorry for the poor schmuck. After all, you know what it's like to have a wife or girlfriend sneaking around and not being totally honest with you. But Liv's your partner and she's had your back, so it's no question you'll have hers. It doesn't mean you'll never ask her about this night, but this isn't really the time – not when you have to face the grand jury tomorrow. You'll wait until you can sit her down and she doesn't have a chance to hang up on you.

"Anyway," you say, pausing for a bit. "Stay safe. Night, Liv."

* * *

 _{and you wait to wear the crown and sit upon the throne, you wanna be the one they want and adore}_

The grand jury doesn't go the way you pictured it. Coming in, you thought you could rely on your charm to get yourself out of an indictment. It's something you've used in interrogations and on the street - working undercover to manipulate the results you wanted. For the most part, you've mastered the fine line between being confident and assertive and being cocky and aggressive. But it's hard to convince these supposedly unbiased jurors when it's clear, when you walk in, that they've already made up their minds about you. It's hard to blame them when nearly every paper in the city has run a story about you; and even if they've been told not to read the papers, there are still inescapable posters up on the street to remind them that you're a 'racist kid killer'.

The only armor you have left is the truth. And maybe it's not the sort of truth they want to see, or the sort of truth that will help them sleep at night, but it's the only thing you have left that could potentially save you. But Strauss rips you apart and the smug smirk on his face tells you he knows he's just won. It's not about justice for guys like Strauss. It's about winning.

A juror asks you a question and you realize this is your only shot left to make an honest plea in hopes that they don't vote to indict you. It's a question you've been asking yourself since you turned into that hallway and found Yusef on the ground. All that numbness you felt last night when you saw the letters 'KKK' tagged on your stoop had dissolved and given was to pride. Your resolve in relation to your training does not falter and your passion for the law does not waver – _that_ you are proud of and _that_ you will not apologize for. You do not plead for your innocence or your freedom; you just tell that juror the only answer you've been able to tell yourself without a hint of doubt.

" _There's no right way to shoot a 14-year-old boy, cripple him, and put him in a wheelchair. I've always prided myself on following my training and my professionalism and respect for the law. Since that night, I've been struggling to reconcile how doing everything right could lead to such a horribly wrong result. And yet if I were in that situation again, I'd do the same thing. And do I regret it? Yes. Yes, ma'am, I do."_

The courtroom corridor feels like it's closing in on you, especially when it dawns on you that these could be your last few seconds as a free man. You've just spent the last few minutes telling Liv that you fucked things up with your testimony. She places a hand on your shoulder, and squeezes to reassure you. If there was any hope left, it had obliterated when you made the foolish decision to speak your case to the jurors, effectively allowing Strauss to decimate your professionalism and character. They're going to indict you, and tomorrow you'll be wearing an orange jumpsuit and a ball and chain around your ankle. Silently, you pray for solitary confinement.

Surprisingly, it isn't jail time that's pushing you close to the edge of flipping out. The hate crime charge is actually more horrifying than the idea of being shanked in prison. The law defining you as a racist and attempted kid killer will destroy your family. How are your kids going to grow up when everyone knows their father is a monster? The people you care about are either going to back away or try to defend you to a public that will not listen – not when the law has the final say on who you are as a man.

When Calhoun walks out to meet you and Liv she tells you the news. You hold your breath. They needed thirteen to indict, ten voted for it and eight against. The exoneration means you're a free man. You try to release the breath, but it gets lodged in your throat as you realize the nightmares aren't over; and you're shortsighted to think that the dismissal of jurors means the end of this circus. While it relieves some of the weight, you still feel like you're carrying more than you can manage on your shoulders. And nothing's changed with regard to that vice-like grip around your heart.

" _You are free to go."_

Freedom is overrated. You learn this fact as soon as you're granted yours, not because you're exoneration is lacking in bald eagles and a waving American flag, but because you don't feel that different from when you woke up this morning. It's this invisible concept – freedom - that you've been struggling for; but now that you have it, it almost feels like this Herculean task to not fuck up again, to grow a thicker skin, and to make things right with the people you've wronged.

You're not sure what force compels you to walk towards the end of the hall where the Barres are hearing about the verdict. You just know that you want to apologize for what happened. And you know it won't do anything to change the reality of the situation, but it's something you need them to hear. And, you can admit, maybe it's more for yourself than for them. You don't expect forgiveness but maybe it's a step towards closure for all of you. It's a step towards loosening that vice around your chest, and maybe a way for their family to move forward and not hang back and hold a grudge on you – not that you'd blame them if they did. If you don't do this then you don't know if there's ever going to be a night when the fear in Yusef's eyes and the guilt in your conscience aren't the two thoughts that engulf you until you ultimately fall into the vacuum of sleep.

Your attempt to ease the pain in your chest and assume accountability for your actions is thwarted by Reverend Curtis, who tells you now is not the time. He's right. But you wonder if there ever will be a time when you can talk to Yusef and his family. You wonder if they will ever grant you the opportunity to hear you out and you wonder if they will ever find it in their hearts to believe you when you say that you regret what you did. You wonder if there is a stretch of time long enough in the universe for you to forgive yourself.

As long as you are shackled by your own voiceless contrition, you cannot allow yourself to be a free man.


	4. Famous Blue Raincoat

_**AN:** Thank you to the lovely people who left reviews for chapter three. This chapter is relatively short compared to the others, but I felt like I ended it in a "good" place so I didn't want to force in an extra scene. And, I also really wanted to update. These will mostly be short scenes post-Grand Jury. It will have a flashback of Nick's job interview, which will be italicized. Chapter title and {lyrics} are from Famous Blue Raincoat by Leonard Cohen. _

_Thank you so much for reading and reviewing. Please don't be shy to share your thoughts; I love hearing from my readers._

* * *

 **Ruined Beyond Redemption**

 **4\. Famous Blue Raincoat**

* * *

 **September 2011**

 _"Can you tell me about your work experience?"_

 _"Well, I'm currently a second grade detective with the Warrants division of the 11th precinct. I've been with Warrants for the last two and a half years, and with Narcotics six years prior to that. In the course of my time in Narcotics, I went undercover for a number of drug busts; but my biggest assignment was when I led the taskforce that took down the MS-13 case. Before that, I enlisted with the Military Intelligence Corps of the US Army. I was stationed in Iraq to conduct interrogations post-9/11; I did that for five terms before I returned to the NYPD."_

 _"Looking at your file, I noticed that you made a lateral move to Warrants. Why is that?"_

 _"To be honest with you, Captain Cragen, I made the lateral move for the interest of my family. I understand that Warrants has less high-profile cases; however, doing undercover work in Narcotics was not favorable for my home life. My wife works in propaganda and communications for the military, and in the last two years she has been home for a total of 60 days. We have a five-year-old daughter, who has spent most of her life in the care of her grandmother. I just wanted some time to be a father at a period in her life when she really needs at least one parent to be there for her. My child is my top priority and I want to be the one to raise her, especially while my wife is serving in Iraq. And, yes, I do understand that the amount of work for an SVU detective is demanding, but now that my daughter is in school, I can afford to commit myself again to this type of work._

 _"It says in your file that you have worked alone for most of your time as a detective. Would you be able to work with a partner?"_

 _"Yes, Captain. The nature of undercover work requires a certain degree of autonomy so I've learned to work independently, while still complying with the orders of my commanding officer. However, it is to my understanding that Special Victims cases are sensitive and complex, thus requiring a team effort. I value trust above anything, and I know that is the foundation of any good partnership. If you were to pair me up with someone, I would put forth loyalty and respect towards my partner. I may have been a lone wolf cop for the last several years, but I would say that I've always been a team player._

 _"Why SVU?"_

 _"I'm going to be honest with you, Captain. When I first became a cop, my trajectory had always been to work my way up to Homicide. But, having worked in law enforcement and the military for over a decade, I have witnessed numerous cases of assault and domestic violence. I know it's cliché but I'm the type of cop who must find purpose in his work, and I strongly believe this is my next assignment. I understand there's a lot to learn and it will test me mentally, but I have never backed down from a challenge. I am open to learn under your command, sir, and I strive to use my training to do what it takes to protect our city from these heinous crimes._

 _"Where do you see yourself in five years?"_

 _"In five years I expect myself to be a better trained, more empathetic, and well-rounded detective than I am now. You know, I don't shy away from expressing my drive and ambition. I will tell you right now – and please don't take this as me trying to take anyone's job – but, my goal for the next five years is to take the sergeant's exam. In the next ten, I would like to be a commanding officer of my own unit, where I can use my organizational skills, training, and knowledge to lead a team. My persistence to climb up the ranks is not about power; it's simply about ensuring the law is enforced to protect the people who are most vulnerable. Since I was a kid, being a cop was all I wanted to be; and now that I'm living it, I just want to be able to do more within the department so I can protect and serve more people."_

* * *

" _Nick, you're gonna get through all this. You're too good a cop and too good a man not to."_

Captain Cragen's announcement of his retirement tilts your world further from its axis. You feel like you're hanging off a loose thread now, and you don't know if it's the break or the release that will come first. The people who have had your back since you joined this squad – Munch and Cragen – have now left.

Although you have your partner and your trust has grown exponentially since those first few months of apprehension, you both have your own shit to deal with. Liv's still dealing with the stress and trauma from the kidnapping, and much recently the trial. She tries to put on a brave face in the squad room, but in those rare times you catch her back in the apartment, sometimes you see the mask removed and you see the distant look in her eyes. You've stopped trying to ask her how she's doing, because she just turns the interrogation back to you and asks you how you're holding up. The two of you are like a support group on mute.

You and Fin get along at work, but you wouldn't say the two of you have much of a rapport outside of it. He's got a life outside of being a cop. You used to have that – a life outside of work – but your family's over in DC and your son is in Queens living with your ex-girlfriend, who still hasn't quite forgiven you for sending her big brother to prison. A personal life feels like this peripheral concept that you can't quite reach anymore; not that you have much time or energy to gather it all together and mend those relationships. Not when you have to repair your professional life.

Sacrifices have to be made. And again, you're probably making the wrong sacrifices.

Then there's Amanda. You don't even know where that's going, and it's mostly because you put your blinders on whenever she's around, afraid of addressing the attraction you feel for her. It's a strange feeling only because you haven't seen anyone in this light since your wife. Amanda's proven herself to be a friend, and you're so thankful that you've both gotten past whatever issues you had to be there for each other. Even though you should know by now that feelings always complicate friendships.

At first, it alarmed you that you could open up so easily to Amanda when you couldn't with your own partner. Maybe it's your own insecurity from failing to protect Liv from William Lewis, or maybe it's the reminder that Liv appreciated how you treated her normally when she returned to work. There's just less pressure on yourself to be reliable and dutiful when it isn't your partner. You swear, half-heartedly, the friendship you're forming with Amanda has nothing to do with your basic instincts; and that maybe, it's just filling another void that you've carved up because you were afraid to look less than perfect to another woman.

In time, Amanda will see it too.

* * *

 _{New York is cold, but I like where I'm living}_

Pushing paper has never been the reason you rolled out of bed every morning to go to work with a grin plastered on your face. Not that you suck at writing DD5s or can't sign forms for shit, but sitting at a desk was just something that never appealed to you. Ever since you were a kid, you were always so restless; running around the neighborhood, climbing every tree, and jumping off bridges (that your friends "attested" wouldn't be fatal). They were right to some extent; you were still alive after all. But you had a few scars and X-ray films of broken bones to substantiate your stupidity.

Even now, you're still so goddamn restless that Fin constantly has to lecture you to sit your ass down. He reminds you that your ass goes on the seat of your chair. Not your desk. And certainly not his desk.

"You're on desk duty, Amaro. For god's sake, sit down." He scolds you as you pace across the bullpen, reading the latest CompStat report.

You shrug your shoulders and move down towards the interrogation room, checking to see if it's occupied. Once you're in the clear, you step into the cold gray room. At least here, you can pace or fucking prance around and no one is going to give you any grief. You look up at the small window situated eight feet up on the wall. It's impossible to see what's going on in the street below, but you see the featherlike clouds streaking against the blue skies and you realize just how much you miss active duty.

Fuck.

Being desk jockey is making you crazy.

* * *

 _{you're living for nothing now, I hope you're keeping some kind of record}_

 _Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click._

You reach the end of the mandatory retraining survey and only realize at the end of 200 questions that there's a 'select all' option at the bottom of the page. Lifelessly, you click submit and get started on the next safety questionnaire where all the answers are correct, and the only wrong answer is to miss ticking one of the check boxes. Whoever designed this test gets an A+ for efficiency, but is probably the person to blame for dumbasses staying on the force.

Scroll down, select all, and submit.

"What's in the bag?" You glance up from the screen to see Amanda bending down and pointing to the Lowe's plastic bag under your desk. "You redecorating at the Bensons' already?"

You chuckle and shake your head. "Nah, it's just paint and rollers for my house."

She arches an eyebrow. "You're moving back? I thought they still hadn't fixed your window."

"Yeah, well, the powers that be…" You roll your eyes. "Uh, some punk spray painted 'KKK' on my stoop."

Amanda's lips part in complete surprise, but she immediately tries to quell her expression by turning it into concern instead. "Seriously? God, Nick, I'm so sorry."

You smile wistfully. "Just part of the course of being accused of a hate crime, right? I think I should write a book about my experience. Might have a market for myself in the Midwest."

"You're joking, right?"

"I'm fucking with you," you say, watching as she sighs in relief. "That would be the most distasteful thing I could possibly do, and if I considered it, I'd grant you the honor of smacking me on the side of the head."

She laughs at your joke but her face turns serious as she ponders the gravity of the situation. "It's just…" she trails off, unable to find the words to explain it just like you on the night you discovered the tag. You try to fill in the blank with what she could have said: 'ridiculous', 'embarrassing', 'stupid, 'fucked'. But none of those words seem to suffice and you agree that silence best expresses it. "You need any help with painting?"

It's more of a one-man job, but you don't really like the idea of being alone tonight. And Amanda looks like she wants an out from whatever it is she planned on doing after work. For friends that she's been hanging out with a lot in recent nights, you're getting this weird impression that she doesn't even really like their company. You shrug your shoulders and nod your head. "Yeah, why not?"

* * *

 _{your famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder}_

It's fucking freezing out.

Amanda joins you on the stoop, where you're both bundled up in your old winter coats. She looks so tiny in this blue Members Only puffer jacket you used to wear back when you were working UC. It's been nice having her around to keep you company. When she first saw the graffiti, she shared your sentiments about being disappointed at the lack of creativity. When she inspected the paint can while you grabbed the coats from the back of your closet, she read out the name of the color as 'Showstopping Charcoal'. It made her giggle, which was like stoking the fire of your attraction. You emerged from your bedroom and admitted you didn't even read the name; you just went for the shade of gray that most resembled the color of concrete. She said if your stoop weren't as showstopping as guaranteed, then she'd drive you back to Lowe's to demand your ten-dollars back. "It'll be fun watching you try to be an asshole," she teased.

Amanda's rolling the paint diagonally in the opposite direction, and she's doing it just to annoy you.

"Come on, right to left, Amanda," you groan. "Get with the program."

"It's the first coat," she retorts, laughing at your obsessive tendencies. "Chill, Picasso."

"You know, technically, your method is more like Picasso's while I was going for more of Mondrian's style."

"Who _are_ you?" She asks, knitting her brows in confusion.

"I took an art history class in college."

"You are such a dork," she says, flicking her paint roller in your direction. The paint lands and streaks across your jacket and your left cheek. Your jaw drops open.

Her face turns pink, tinting her cheeks all the way up to the tips of her ears. You lift your roller and narrow your eyes playfully.

"Sorry," she pleads, crinkling her nose and closing her eyes as she pulls away to brace herself from the impending attack.

But you set the roller down, and you bite your lip as you try to suppress the goofy grin that wants to appear. Amanda removes her gloves and throws them down on her lap. She reaches up to your face and tries to wipe off the gray paint on your cheek. But you're sure she's just made it worse because her face turns into a grimace followed by a sheepish smile. Keeping her palm on your cheek, she gazes up at your eyes and arrests them with her own. You tilt your head against her palm as her eyes drift down to your mouth. She's thinking what you're thinking; and reason flies out your broken window as you slowly inch closer.

The move is slow and deliberate, but it also feels like there's not enough time to think this through before you've captured her lips in yours. Her warm fingertips press on your cool cheeks just as her tongue slips into your mouth and you curve your lips over hers. You cup her jaw, deepening the kiss. Pressing her up against the iron banister, you capture the moan that she releases. She swings her legs down the steps so you can get closer, so you can almost hover over her body. While the surface of your skin feels cool in this January weather, you feel like blood and fire are coursing through the veins just beneath your skin.

It's a _showstopping_ kiss.

Kissing Amanda is like having your first kiss again. Not that stolen peck on the lips you were subjected to when you were in kindergarten, but that first kiss when you were this scrawny 13-year-old with braces, and too much gel in your hair. Ironically enough, your first kiss took place in the confessional booth of your school's chapel while you and this girl were sneaking out of theology class.

It's not that you're thinking about this other girl while you're kissing Amanda. You're brought back to this memory of the thrill you felt hiding in the booth, the overwhelming silence of the chapel, and the sense that you were the only two souls left in the universe. You make the connection as her fingers brush against the hair above the nape of your neck and her lips glide over yours.

There's a thrill to it. You just can't get your mind off the thrill of kissing Amanda for the first time. It's something you've thought about, but never really imagined would ever happen. You flirted with each other; but you heard rumors that Benson used to do the same thing with her old partner, and yet that never materialized into anything. So, you kept up with the seemingly harmless flirting because if your partner could do it, why couldn't you? Yet here you are making out with your colleague, and you figure the two of you probably just have less self-control than the illustrious Benson and Stabler. Who never got caught. Because they never fucking acted on it.

"Fuck."

You pull away in a flash. When you see the rejection on her face, you feel like a fucking idiot. She tries to hide that crushed look by lowering and turning her head to the side; she breathes so heavy that clouds of air escape her pink and parted lips.

"I'm so sorry," you plead, reaching out to her. But she waves your hand off and she tightly crosses her arms around her lithe body.

"Shit," you run your hands over your face, feeling the paint drag along your fingertips. "I didn't mean to do that."

"Yeah, I get it!" She snaps. Her eyes narrow into slits and her mouth is twisted in a scowl. "It was a mistake."

"It's not you, Amanda," you say, trying to mitigate the sting of your words. "You know why we can't do this," you remind her, simultaneously drilling it in your brain that, while grabbing drinks with a co-worker is tolerated by the NYPD's code of conduct, engaging in an inappropriate relationship with another member of your squad is absolutely forbidden. "I can't afford to fuck up with the department again."

She laughs wryly. "Oh, so this is about you and your reputation?" _Goddamnit_ , you're such a fucking idiot. Mentally, you're kicking yourself for opening your big mouth before you've evaluated every word of your sentence. You know you need to put some more forethought before speaking… or you know, before pulling the trigger on your weapon.

"I'm sorry. That's not what I meant. What I was trying to say is that we both know we can't do this if we both want to keep our jobs. I'm looking out for your best interest, too."

She nods her head but the scowl on her face remains. "I'm heading home," she announces, standing up without giving you the acknowledgement of a last look. Turning on her heel, she stares down at the stoop. The red paint is still peeking through the gray. "Let the first layer dry before you paint over it," she points out in a deadpan tone. "Don't fuck this one up too."


	5. The Beast

_**AN:** Hello. As always, I'd like to begin by thanking people for reading and reviewing. I get so excited when I see people's response to this story; it's very encouraging and it makes me want to write even more. I know Nick was a bit of an idiot last chapter, and I think things have to get worse until they get better (you'll see what I mean towards the end of this chapter). But, trust me, I'm not trying to make him unlikable... poor guy is just really jaded right now. This chapter will feature some lines from the one of the first scenes in Jersey Breakdown; however, I made a few changes and rearranged a few things. The title and the {lyrics} of this chapter are from The Beast by Angus & Julia Stone._

 _Please read and review._

* * *

 **Ruined Beyond Redemption**

 **5\. The Beast**

* * *

 _{pack up your things, your work here is done}_

The air bites into your skin and snaps you back to reality. Your teeth graze into your bottom lip, which still tastes of Amanda. Blinking twice, you barely see her form before she fades into the shadows. Moments later, taillights flicker on and she's gone.

Pushing off the steps, you stare fixedly down the street and play back the events that led to her departure. You kissed Amanda, pulled away, and shot her down. You tried to explain your actions with reason and principle, but she could see right past the bullshit. Here was a chance at square one with someone new - someone you could admit you had feelings for – but, like she said, you fucked it up.

The kiss plays on loop in your head like a broken film projector, showing the same picture over and over. Willing it to go away only insists on its prominence, and there's nothing you can do to remove yourself from this sick cycle. This is how you find yourself back on the Upper West Side without any recollection of driving back to your partner's apartment. Scientists call it highway hypnosis – a mental state in which a person can drive long distances without being conscious of routine driving activity. It's a scary thought, but it's the only explanation that makes sense. The feel and the taste of her lips tattoo itself in your consciousness, and like needles and ink to the skin – the sensation becomes an addiction.

* * *

 _{they brand you with the fire, then push you into the sun}_

"You're home?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Liv looks up, her brows creasing, to see you entering her apartment. She disentangles her legs and lays her feet flat on the floor.

You shrug and hang your coat by the door. "Never mind. Forget it."

"No, tell me," she says, switching the TV to mute before she turns her head around to watch you walk into the kitchen. "What are you trying to say?"

"Nothing," you reply, opening the fridge door. There's nothing inside apart from produce that's starting to turn brown, some Greek yogurt, Cassidy's beer, and barely-used bottles of condiments. You pick up a single-serve cup of yogurt. "I just noticed that I haven't seen you much lately."

She raises an eyebrow. "Really? I get this from Brian and, now, you too?"

"Liv, I'm not trying to meddle…" you say, trying to keep the tone of your conversation casual. You don't want to sound accusatory. You dig into the Greek yogurt, which you've smothered with a generous spoonful of Liv's weird organic honey. You've been meaning to get the kind that comes in the bottle shaped like a bee, but you don't want to seem like you're moving in. "Just curious. That's all."

"You have nothing to worry about."

"So, we're leaving it at that?" you ask, leaning against the counter with the spoon still in your mouth. "No details? No name?"

She twists her body and rests her forearms on the backrest of the couch. Her eyes narrow in on you as she studies you carefully. "What is it that you think I'm doing?"

"Hey, Liv, if you're seeing someone else, I don't want to know and I really don't care. But…" you trail off, looking past her because you don't want that classic Benson glare to break your resolve. "I don't want to sound self-righteous, but you're gonna have to talk to Cassidy about this."

"Nick, I'm not sleeping with anyone else."

"I never said you were," you counter, and you see the realization of her mistake flash in her eyes. "But you _are_ meeting someone for drinks late at night while your boyfriend thinks you're working a graveyard shift. Like I said, I don't care and you don't have to worry about me telling him. But this isn't gonna end well."

"I'll talk to him -"

"- When you're ready. I get it." Finishing your yogurt, you chuck the plastic container into the garbage and the spoon in the sink.

"What about you?" She changes the subject as she lowers her chin to rest on her elbow. "How are you holding up?"

"Are you asking as my boss or as my partner?"

"If I say 'your partner' will you be honest with me?"

"Okay then," you start, "I guess there's no point in making my case for active duty? Even though you and I both know I'm more useful to the squad on the ground than behind the desk."

She sighs, pivoting to face the television. It's still on mute but it's enough of a distraction that she won't have to say 'no' straight to your face. It doesn't matter, because you leave the kitchen to join her on the couch. "You know standard procedure normally calls for a two week suspension."

"I get that, but –"

"What's that on your face?" She reaches over but stops short of touching your cheek.

"My face?" You brush your fingertips against your cheek and feel the hardened paint crack under your touch. "Oh, uh, some kids tagged my stoop. Had to repaint it."

Her eyes widen in shock for a fleeting moment, but she softens it with compassion. "Did you report it?"

"Did I report that someone retaliated with a hate crime after I was accused of a hate crime myself?" You ask rhetorically and scoff, "no."

"Nick."

"Look, it doesn't matter. I just want to distance myself from this as much as possible."

There's a long pause between your dismissive comment and her next question. She knows you still don't want to talk about your feelings over shooting an unarmed kid. You can talk about the facts – no problem. But as long as she's not opening up about her trauma with Lewis and as long as she appreciates the way you've treated her normally when everyone else has treated her like a glass figurine, you don't see why it's imperative to share your feelings. "You're still going to anger management, right?

You chuckle darkly and rub your eyes. "Not that I have much of a choice."

"It's helping though, right?" She asks hopefully. "It can help you deal with the shooting."

"Nah, the stuff they tell us is common sense and geared towards cops who have serious issues controlling their anger. They either flipped out because a suspect was resisting arrest or, I don't know, they felt like going on some power trip. I have to take this class because I backed up an officer then days later, I ran down the street with a baseball bat because these sons of bitches shot at my house while my kid and my mother were inside."

"Nick."

"I don't get off on being angry, Liv. Sure, the shit we have to deal with at work makes me want to use some of these criminals as target practice, but I know how to control it…. Not like these guys in the class," you say, looking up to meet your partner's eyes. She nods her head, telling you she understands. She has no idea how much you appreciate that. "You know me. You've seen these assholes drive me up the wall and test me, but when have I ever lost my temper in an interrogation, huh?"

Something flashes across her face, like she's remembering an incident that disputes what you've just said. But she looks so faraway that you don't think it's you she's thinking about.

"This ain't about me learning to control my anger because I've got that down; I don't need someone telling me to count my breaths and learn to walk away from the situation. You don't have time for that shit when people are shooting into your house!" You cry out exasperatedly. Her empathetic eyes drift back to meet yours, and you have to look away before she breaks you down and you end up revealing more than you intended. "This ain't about me, Liv. This is about the NYPD saving face, telling me I need to go through this meaningless procedure so they can prove to the administration that I'm a reformed cop. And, fuck it, I'll go to the meetings as long as it means I get my gun and shield back."

She rests her hands on her lap and smooths down the fabric of her light pink sweatpants. It's hard to imagine your partner going to Macy's and purchasing a pair of sweatpants, much less in pink. But you realize that there are a lot of things you've learned about her and Cassidy in the last several days you've lived in their apartment. Some things are interesting in an offhand sort of way, like Liv's casual wardrobe, which is more colorful than you expected, or Cassidy's proclivities for sleeping in the middle of action movies. Other things you've discovered since becoming their temporary roommate are a little more unsettling.

"Okay, look, I don't want to overstep," she says, placing a hand between the two of you. "But maybe you can gain something from it. It sounds like you're holding onto your anger. And maybe you think this is your way of controlling it – bottling it up inside - but trust me, it's not doing you any favors."

"What are you trying to say?"

"You don't even realize how much you're holding onto this anger."

"You see me right now?" Without thinking, you raise your voice. "Do you see how calm I am?"

"Seriously, Nick," she says, rolling her eyes. "You know, maybe anger management isn't all you need; I can give you the number of my psychiatrist—"

"- I don't talk to shrinks," you reply, raising your hand to interrupt her. "No offense, Liv. I'm happy it works for you, but if I really needed to talk to someone I could just talk to my priest."

"Well, Dr. Lindstrom's card is on the fridge in case you change your mind." She stretches out her legs and turns back to the TV. She puts the volume back on. Her eyes are fixed on the screen and her back relaxes into the couch.

You mimic her movements and lean back to put your mind into something other than your problems, Liv's problems, and the kiss that is still playing in the back of your head. "What are we watching?"

"House Hunters International."

"Cool," you say, noting as the caption 'Tuscany, Italy' flashes on the bottom of the screen. They feature familiar landscapes and architecture before the camera pans down to a young American couple. "You know, I've been there. Best bottle of wine I've ever had."

"You? Italy?" Liv asks incredulously before she breaks out into a smile. "When did you find the time or money?"

"Honeymoon. Paid for by Maria's folks on the condition that I return their daughter pregnant so I can fulfill their lifelong goal of becoming grandparents."

"And?" Her brows arch in expectation.

"Winery tour. Maria and I fell behind at the wine cellar," you begin to explain, keeping note of how she's really listening to your story. "Should I stop here or do you want to hear about how Zara was conceived?"

"TMI," She groans, chucking a throw pillow to your face.

* * *

 _{retrench me because of machines, kids trading roses for guns}_

The only perk – if you can even call it that – of being relegated to paperwork is that you have so much more time for extracurricular activities like anger management and mandatory retraining.

There are plenty of angry cops to go around in the NYPD and, because financial plans have never really been the department's strong suit, they'll spring the bare minimum for anger management. So you end up in these classes of 20 to 30 disgruntled cops, who think they shouldn't be here. For four weeks, a trained psychologist stands in front of the room and reiterates information that you can read from the supplied paperback book in less than two hours. The whole situation reminds you of that one time you infiltrated a twelve steps meting; only this time, people feel less guilty about how their actions have affected other people.

Everyone in the room is at fault whether they believe it or not. In almost every case, there are ways to justify the anger but you're all here because you reacted irrationally. Maybe they just did some fucked up shit or maybe it was a case of bad things happening to good people. Either way, there's a reason you all find yourselves here and one thing you all have in common is this unspoken agreement to keep the place a judgment-free zone. No one wants to be here; you all just want to get through the program, pass the course, and get your gun and shield back. Furthermore, no one wants to be associated with anyone in the room because you're all trying to get back to the department's good graces, and being buddies with a bunch of angry cops, who are likewise under administrative discipline, screams out social and professional suicide.

The psychologist who speaks to your group has a PhD from Cornell, which makes you wonder if there's something wrong with him or if he's ever been inappropriate with a patient. Why would someone of his pedigree be teaching generic anger management techniques to police officers, when he could be getting paid a thousand dollars an hour to hear Upper Eastside housewives talk about their problems? Did he really go to school all those years and rack up all that college debt to tell a bunch of angry cops to calm down? Something doesn't add up, and that makes you distrustful.

Number one on the doctor's list of techniques is to think before you speak, which also translates to think before you pull the trigger. It sounds like common sense but you know that you could really benefit from driving that point home. It's clearly something that has escaped you, which is the reason why you're spending a Tuesday evening in a windowless room in One Police Plaza instead of watching the Rangers game from your couch. You scribble it down in your notebook.

The second technique is to find a quiet space and relax. Once you've calmed down, express your anger in a non-confrontational manner. The doctor suggests speaking to your commanding officer about your anger issues because it is part of their job, as your leader, to help you understand and express your frustration. This makes you think about coming to Liv with your problems. But she's the one making the call to keep you off active duty, which is predominantly the reason why you've been so on edge lately.

You can't just tell her the reason why you're so pissed off is because she's sticking behind the decision to keep you behind a desk all day. But maybe she'd be a little more sympathetic to your situation if she knew that all day you had to overhear these other detectives whine about leaving the precinct. You could tell her these things back when she was just your partner but now that she's your boss too, it blurs some lines.

But Liv is also your friend, and maybe the doctor has a point about having someone else around to help you understand and express your frustration. Maybe you can dig deep and disclose the regret you've been feeling since the night of the shooting. Maybe you can tell her why you really haven't been sleeping. But there's an implicit understanding and gratitude between the two of you following the ordeal with Lewis; it just seems easier to keep things the way they are. Why rock the boat some more when you've both already capsized?

You're partners and you have each other's backs even when you don't know the full story. You're probably better off not knowing, because the more you know the more vulnerable you are. And, you know, you and Liv would rather hold all your cards close to your chest than confirm to the department that neither of you are ready to return to work.

Number three is to identify all possible solutions before making a move. This step is asinine because it doesn't account for the fact that every situation is different and there are certain scenarios that don't have the time to allow for one to examine the consequences of every action. And sometimes, there are simply no solutions that will lead to a bloodless result.

The doctor can go all Jimmy Carter to drive this point home, but you want to remind him of the Iranian hostage crisis and how good intentions and diplomatic talks don't always lead to desired results. You don't realize you're writing down your thoughts until this cop, Moseley, nudges you on the shoulder and asks you who the fuck is Jimmy Carter.

The fourth piece of advice opens up an assortment of subcategories, which you will delve into in the coming sessions. The doctor claps his hands and smiles excitedly, announcing that you're all going to get to work together when practicing these relaxation activities. It's a combination of deep-breathing exercises, repeating a calming word or phrase, and maintaining a journal for the next month.

In a way, you're already doing the last activity by writing out your thoughts while half-listening to the class. But then again, your anger management instructor would probably prefer reading about your feelings than your plots and strategies for how the White House can better handle hostage situations. Even if you are reinforcing your hypothetical military strategies with plans from World War II to as recent as Benghazi. It reminds you of your first date with your wife when you hit it off by geeking out over your favorite military movies.

You go through more techniques on the list, which is straightforwardly summarized towards the end of the book, until you finally reach the last one: don't hold a grudge. The doctor tells the class that forgiveness is the most important step; otherwise anger and negative feelings will impede your development. The world is not a fair place but it is also not out to get you; either way, do not let your bitterness and sense of injustice weigh you down. "Forgive those who have wronged you. But in order to pass this program and be cleared for active duty, you must learn to forgive yourself."

How do you quantify it? How do you ascribe a letter grade to forgiveness?

* * *

 _{don't be running late are you on time today}_

Amanda's absence makes you think about her more. It's just another strange twist in the system that completely fucks up with your brain. The more you try not to think about someone, the more they plague your every waking thought. When it's not her, it's you stewing in your own misery over what you've done to Yusef and his family. Either way, you're looking at a 24-hour convenience store where the only thing they sell is self-condemnation.

The more you try to concentrate on the reports on your desk, the more you speculate on where the hell Amanda could be. She's been doing this for weeks. And maybe Liv doesn't notice because she's being pulled in a hundred different directions now that she's commanding officer. You suspect that Amanda going AWOL seems calculated because she picked the perfect time for her and the worst time for the understaffed squad. But you pick up on the tardiness, the dark circles under her eyes, and the Venti cups of coffee. You convince yourself that keeping an eye on her has nothing to do with the kiss from the other night, but a side effect of being on desk duty and having nothing better to do. But you're a terrible liar, even when you're lying to yourself.

There are a lot of things you observe when you aren't cleared to leave the precinct with your gun and badge. You discover that Fin thoughtlessly steals all the pens even though he only uses them once and chucks them into the blackhole of his second level drawer. No one bothers to make the first pot of coffee until Valdez arrives at the squad room. She always grumbles about how there's never any coffee made when she gets to work. One day you start the pot just to see her reaction, even though you can't drink the Sam's Club swill the department issues. When she arrives, she walks to the coffee station and stares in shock at the percolating black liquid. Her eyes dart around the squad room, and she never suspects it's you because you're sipping on a can of a slightly more palatable Explosivo.

Another observation has to do with your partner and new sergeant. Even though Liv is swamped with cases and meetings, she still manages to find time to grab lunch or dinner with this mystery person. It's not Cassidy, because lately you've been coming back to their apartment to find him watching football on your (no, their) couch. You and Cassidy aren't best friends or anything, but now that the investigation is over and you're exonerated, you've both shaken off most of the tension. You know the rapport is temporary and it'll only last until the end of the fourth quarter; but there's nothing that brings two men together like a case of beer and trash talking the Jets.

Besides, anger management advises to stop holding grudges and you're (passively) trying to do just that with Cassidy.

So if your partner isn't with her boyfriend and there are no open cases and no scheduled meetings at 1-PP (you've checked), then who is she meeting? As much as the curiosity is killing you and as much as you're bent on following her, you decide to let this go and trust her. Like you said, Liv is the one person who has really had your back; especially after you burned your other bridge and fucked up with Amanda. You don't want to give your partner a reason to lose trust in you, so you don't play detective on her personal life and you definitely don't get involved with one of her detectives.

You're doing the right thing.

Yet even with Fin's kleptomaniac tendencies and Liv's suspected affair, the one thing that really troubles you is the fact that Amanda isn't showing up to work on time. And some days, it's like she's on-call and just shows up when she's needed. She's lucky that her partner is laid-back and shrugs off her absence like it's no big deal. But you're on thin ice with the department, and on even thinner ice with her. So you don't arrange a stakeout or go undercover and infiltrate her life like you did last time. Still, it doesn't mean that you don't stop speculating and worrying about her.

When you try to apologize for the other night, or even when you try small talk, she gives you the cold shoulder. You know she's angry over the kiss and the things you said after. You just want to explain your side and make certain that you're looking out for her. She says she gets it, but you can't let it go. Not when she's avoiding you and scowling at you whenever you're in the same room as her. She's the one acting like a petulant child when all you want to do is have a discussion like adults.

And something else that pisses you off is the fact that you're twiddling your thumbs playing desk jockey, when all you really want is to get back on the ground and hit the streets. You picture yourself as a dog begging for a walk out in the sunshine. Meanwhile, Amanda's punching in late and hungover with the same sick dog excuse you gave her a couple of weeks ago.

You work hard, do your job, follow your training; and yet, you're the one pushing paper and fielding dirty looks from co-workers and random people on the street. And you can just picture the smug look on Rollins, dressed in your blue jacket that she never returned, as she's strolling in smelling of booze and cigarettes. You're the one who punches in on time, and yet you get written up. You're the disciplined one, and yet the NYPD orders you to stay in place until enough time has elapsed since they threw you under the bus and made themselves look like fools in front of the mayor's office.

It's not that you want to see Amanda called out for being missing in action, but you'd just like to see some impartiality in treatment. If the higher-ups are going to stack their cards against you, you don't want to see them bending the rules for anybody else. Granted, showing up late to work is so far removed from shooting a kid; but these administrative oversights add up. And this is the problem with police departments – cops get away with minor violations and it makes them complacent. Soon enough, departments face the problem of a force that thinks they're above reproach. No wonder anger management has a revolving door.

* * *

 _{mama won't you sing, it's like you're cut by the blade}_

It happens to be the time you're painstakingly trying to be coordinated when you bang your shin on the edge of the coffee table. Eventually, you resign yourself to turning on the light so you can actually see where you're going and verify that the buttons on your shirt are, in fact, aligned. Light seeps through the crack under the bedroom door; and your partner wanders sleepily out to the living room.

"Sorry. Did I wake you?"

"Look, I'm sorry about the couch, Nick." You wake her up in a god-awful time in the morning and she's the one apologizing. You don't expect anything less.

"No, it's not the couch," you begin to explain. "I'm just not sleeping. But it doesn't matter; I'm on desk duty, which I'm getting kind of tired of, by the way."

"I know…" she trails off. "You know, Nick, you should really talk to somebody. Like I said the other night, my shrink –"

"—I see my priest."

"Okay. I was just thinking that maybe something different –"

"No, I – I'm glad that works for you, all right, but that's not me."

"Okay," she says, heeding to your request to end that particular conversation. "I just want to say that you can stay here for as long as you need."

"You've been through a lot lately too, Liv. All right? The trial…" you say, deciding to end it at that to prevent dredging any more horrific memories that keep her up at night. Pretending to be asleep, you've witnessed her walk out of the bedroom in the middle of the night to pour herself a glass of wine or scrub her hands under the kitchen sink. "You could use some quiet, and the last thing you need right now is to worry about me."

"Could you stop? You are my partner."

"Yeah, but with Cragen gone, you're my boss now too, right?" you counter. "Anyway, look, I've had time to figure things out. Maria and I, we're getting back together."

She looks at you disbelievingly. "Oh, so you two have been talking."

"Not yet, but I'm gonna go down to DC this weekend. Look, I'm gonna get my old life back, Liv. That's what I need to do now."

Her phone chimes and she looks down at the screen with a frown on her face.

"All good?"

"Yeah," she says, peeling her eyes away from the message. "I've got a vic at the ER assaulted under the highline."

"Hey, I could go," you offer.

"No, Nick, you can't," she says, and there's that look of sympathy again. "That's why it's called desk duty. I'm sorry."

"Yeah," you say, smiling weakly, "I'm sorry too."

She sighs and taps into her phone. Pressing it against her ear, she gives you a look that goes from concern to impatience. It's a while before she speaks up. "Rollins, hey, call me back as soon as you pick up. We have a vic in the ER at Presbyterian. Meet me there as soon as you can."

When she ends the message, you can't help but ask her, "Rollins, huh?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

Her brows furrow as she gauges your reaction. Maybe you shouldn't have been so goddamn obvious. "Is there something I should know?"

You bite your lip and smile cheekily. "Are you asking as my boss or my partner?"


	6. Tears in Heaven

_**AN** : Hello! I'm still here. I just want to apologize for the long time between updates. I underestimated how busy I'd be while on vacation; and it's not so much that my day is packed with stuff to do, but I never really get that much time alone. I'm really paranoid people are looking over my shoulder so it's impossible for me to get in the zone to write. Anyway, enough excuses... I want to say thank you to the lovely people who left reviews for chapter five. You are all super wonderful and I wish I could give you real life hugs, but hopefully *internet hugs* will suffice. _

_This chapter picks up right where we left off from chapter five, so the beginning of Jersey Breakdown. Just letting y'all (apparently I'm Texan now?) know I've borrowed some lines from the show and rearranged them into new scenes. It's a dialogue-heavy chapter and Nick says A LOT of stuff that's going to make you want to facepalm. But at least he'll have company because he's not alone when it comes to saying stupid stuff... :D_

 _Title and song {lyrics} are from Tears in Heaven by Eric Clapton._

 _Please, please, please let me know what you think. Read, enjoy, and review!_

* * *

 **Ruined Beyond Redemption**

 **6\. Tears in Heaven**

* * *

 _{I'll find my way, through night and day, 'cause I know I just can't stay}_

Weathered ivory keys bear heavily to play a hymn that echoes within the walls of St. Augustine's Cathedral. Candles glow with a warm light, reflecting off the silver and gold coins that have collected in the ashes. Dipping your fingers into the bowl of holy water, you make the sign of the cross and bow your head toward the altar. You walk down the center aisle until you reach the third pew, where you genuflect.

When you take a seat in the row behind Father Biobaku, you can hear him recite the Lord's Prayer in Latin. You're rusty but you mouth the words just like you did back when you were in Catholic school. He senses your presence and makes a sign of the cross before he pushes himself up. He sends you a warm smile that tells you he's happy you've returned. Truthfully, you were hesitant to come back because you thought the best way to move forward was to leave it in the past and not talk about it. But Liv advised you to talk to someone, and you'd rather talk to your priest than pay a shrink to listen to your problems. So, out of guilt – or maybe a sense of obligation to your partner – you follow through and stop by St. Augustine's for some spiritual direction.

It still beats coming into work early only to be chained to your desk.

"Nick," Father Biobaku acknowledges, bowing his head. "What can I do for you?"

"Father." You clasp your hands together and squeeze tightly, cracking your knuckles. "My partner thinks it's a good idea if I talk to someone about the – about what happened –"

"—The shooting?" he asks, turning his head slightly so you can see his brows knit together. "Your partner is right."

"So here I am."

The morning light begins to filter through the stained glass windows and scatter colors and patterns on the stone floors. For a moment, the dancing lights distract you from the surrounding silence. The Gregorian chant has ceased only to be replaced by the eerie sound of distant footsteps.

"Have you forgiven yourself?" Father Biobaku asks.

You remember going to confession the day after the shooting and asking God to forgive you for your transgressions. Your penance included a litany of prayers, fasting, and doing good works. You're still not sure what 'good works' entails, but the priest has assured you that it's entirely up to you. Either way, by declaring sorrow for your sins, you were imparted absolution in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…

Just like that. Repent and be cleansed.

Although the sacrament of confession absolves you from your sins in the eyes of the religious, it still doesn't erase the memory or the guilt from your conscience. And that's really what you're searching for if you're being completely honest. But how do you tell your priest that being pardoned by God is not enough?

As long as the guilt remains and as long as you haven't sought forgiveness from Yusef and his family, you don't think you can ever come to terms with it. Whatever good work you do and whatever suffering you endure won't make up for what you've done; they won't heal your sins and they won't help you rebuild your conscience. Nothing you do tangibly or spiritually will reward that boy with a miracle of a fully functioning spine. You've taken his childhood away, so how can there be pardon? How can there be peace?

" _My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?"_

You haven't dismissed it from your mind and you haven't forgiven yourself. And you are doubtful that day will ever come.

Father Biobaku faces the altar and stares up at the statue of Jesus Christ. "He died on the cross to save us from sin and deliver us from evil, so you wouldn't have to struggle in that darkness for your time here on earth. Jesus was crucified for your sake so you can devote your life to deepening your personal relationship with Him, loving your neighbor, and growing in holiness."

"But how can I do that when my actions ruined someone else's life?"

"What happened to Yusef was an unfortunate accident but, like you said, it was in your training to react that way given the circumstances. But I disagree that you've ruined the boy's life. I believe that God intended for Yusef's life to take a different path."

You shake your head because you refuse to believe that God would plan for the shooting to happen and that God had aimed for Yusef to be paralyzed.

"Trust in the Lord to guide you to salvation and mercy," he says. "There are acts of reparation you can do to show that you stand by Christ on the eternal crosses on which he continues to be crucified. Attend mass on Sundays and receive Communion, embody the teachings of the church in your daily life, and share your gift of faith."

It all seems too simple. You can't seem to reconcile sitting through an hour of mass with absolution. There has to be more you can do.

After a moment of silence, Father Biobaku speaks, "I noticed that you are wearing your wedding ring again." You glance down at the silver band on your finger and it reminds you of last night's mental debate that kept you tossing and turning on the couch. Without your ring, you always felt so incomplete, so exposed. Its absence was evidence of your own failures as a husband; so without it, you felt like your faults were on display. Now that the ring is back on your finger, it still fits but it doesn't make you feel complete anymore. Something about it feels unfamiliar and you find yourself twisting it around in clockwise fashion until your skin feels raw.

"Yes, I've been thinking about reconciling with my wife and focusing on my family. When I'm with them, I have stability – I have people that ground me and support me and remind me of what truly matters in life." You rub your hands together as you hunch forward. A smile forms across your face as you think of your kids and how much you've missed them. "My daughter, Zara, she's seven and every time I see her, she looks more and more like her mother. And I just need to be around more for her… and for my son. They need me more than this job needs me."

"That's good, Nick. Family is what you need most right now."

"And my wife – I mean, we've had problems before but we always worked it out. I know I need to be more patient and more understanding, but I think we can fix our marriage… we can have our family back."

Father Biobaku nods affirmatively. "The sacrament of matrimony is a covenant and a partnership of the whole life," he prefaces. "I give you my blessing in your duty as a husband to restore the union of your marriage and rebuild your family. Stability is what you need, and family will provide you with the support and fortitude to persevere in these times of trial."

"I just… Father, I don't know what I'm supposed to do if she won't give me another chance."

"Trust in His plan," Father Biobaku assures you. "God is the author of marriage."

"I will." You lift your gaze to the image at the altar. It's been a while since you last delved into your faith and allowed your mind and heart to immerse in the scripture and teachings. A lot of it you remember from school and Sunday mass with your family; but for the most part you treated it like theology. You had an academic approach to Catholicism and a religious approach whenever you felt particularly repentant about something. But you don't really recall the last time you were spiritual. Maybe Father Biobaku is right. Maybe you just need to have more faith and trust in the higher power to lead you to this seemingly elusive place of salvation and mercy.

"Nick, you will get through this because you are a good man and you are choosing to honor your commitment to your family. Your wellbeing as a detective and as a Catholic is strongly bound to the healthy state of your conjugal and family life. Restore that trust with your wife and you will, once again, find peace and happiness in your heart."

"I will. Thank you, Father."

He asks you to stay for a few minutes while he says a prayer for prudence and guidance. Together, you pray for Yusef and his family, that they may find the strength and courage to overcome adversity. You pray for your marriage and your family, that they may provide you with love and light in these times of darkness. And with his blessing, he tells you to go forth and fulfill your duties as a Christian man, husband, and father.

In harmony, you both say, "Amen".

* * *

 _{time can bring you down, time can bend your knees, time can break your heart}_

You're rewriting DD-5s because the department has been on a spree of promoting inexperienced cops to make up for the lifers they've strong-armed into retirement. Even though quite a number of your superiors still refer to you as 'kid', it doesn't change the fact that you're months away from turning 40; thus allowing you every right to gripe about the next generation of police officers. These guys are using slang and shorthand in their reports and it makes you want to shake your fist at them as if you're Clint Eastwod yelling at kids to get off your lawn.

Barely out of the academy, these young officers forsake grammar in favor of run-on sentences that exist for the sole purpose of filling up the page. And you're the sucker who's stuck reading reports about a man who 'whipped his junk out in the park' or a man who 'copped a feel of a woman's boob on the subway'. That's another thing. Instead of simply saying subway throughout the report, this officer writes down 'underground rapid transit rail system' just to pad up the word count.

The phone lines are picking up this morning and every time it rings, you're secretly hoping for something big – something that would warrant pulling you out of desk duty. The unit is understaffed and everyone on the floor is scrambling around with their heads cut off. Liv's out on a call with Rollins and they haven't returned; so no one's really around to captain the mothership and call the signals.

Finally, when Liv arrives with Amanda in tow, you immediately notice something's off. Liv marches into Cragen's old office and slams the door, eliciting curious looks from uniformed officers passing by. Amanda looks unfazed as she simply shrugs her shoulders and slumps down on her chair, symbolically wiping her hands clean of any involvement in the state of your boss' mood. She opens her laptop and takes a generous swig of her Starbucks; the mark of red lipstick staining the opening.

Knowing you're not getting anything out of Amanda because she still won't speak to you, you get up and knock on Liv's door. When she grunts a response, you open it anyway only to realize she was probably telling you to leave her alone. She has her head between her hands, with her fingers rubbing soothing circles on her temples. Her reading glasses are cast off to the side and there's an open folder on her desk with a picture of a young girl with pink streaks in her hair.

"Nick," she warns before you can even get a word out. "Not now."

"I haven't even said anything."

She slowly lifts her head and glares in your direction. "I know you want to go back on active duty but –"

"—Right," you interrupt, "but I'm not here to annoy you about that… yet." You close the door behind you and shut out the noise and chaos going on outside. The phones are off the hook and you just witness two detectives collide into each other while each carrying cups of piping hot coffee. Liv cranes her neck to try to see what the commotion is about, but you wave her off and pretend it's nothing. Without invitation, you take a seat across her desk and lean forward to study the expression on your partner's face. "Something happened back in the hospital?"

"Erin Fogarty," she says, flipping the folder around to show the file. "Unis found her passed out under the Highline. Her clothes were torn, there were signs of assault, and they picked up three guys at the scene all pointing fingers at each other."

"That's rough," you say, sighing when you get a better look at her picture. Although the medical report states she isn't a minor, you hazard a guess that Erin can't be older than 16. "She cooperating?"

Liv shrugs. "She did the rape kit but she's too scared to talk."

"Is that the reason for _this_?" you ask, gesturing to her head, which is still being supported by her hands. In the job, you've all encountered uncooperative and inconsistent victims and suspects numerous times, so this reaction coming from your partner is quite unexpected.

She closes her eyes in response and hums what sounds like a 'no'.

"Does it have something to do with Rollins then?"

Her head perks up, with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes, and her palms fall flat against her desk. "Rollins?"

"If looks could kill," you begin, turning your head around to look through the narrow spaces between the blinds. The blonde detective is still drinking from her Venti-sized cup of coffee and rubbing evidence of her lack of sleep from her eyes. "You two got into a fight or something?"

Liv rolls her eyes and sighs. "That obvious, huh?"

"What happened?"

"She was late again this morning. I had to remind her we were short-staffed while in the car on the way back. I told her I wouldn't tolerate her tardiness and absence if it were to happen again," she explains, then she looks away and adds, "Then she just turned up her nose and told me that Cragen passing the torch had gotten to my head."

"She said that?" You whip forward and slam your fist on the table. Your blood is boiling and your chest is thumping violently. "What'd you say?"

"Nothing," she sighs and shakes her head. "We didn't talk the rest of the way."

"Someone needs to set her straight," you assert, pushing yourself off the chair. Pacing across the room, you run your fingers through your hair. "She can't keep taking advantage of you as her boss. I mean, what is this? The second time in weeks she's thrown something in your face?"

"Nick," she says softly, trying to calm you down. "If this is about her comment about seeing a shrink… We don't know. Amanda could be going through something right now –"

"Bullshit." You throw your head back. "Everyone's going through something – you with the trial, me with the shooting. It doesn't give her the excuse to disrespect you like that."

Liv nods and tucks loose strands of hair behind her ear. "You're right. I'll have to bring it upstairs if it happens again. They're already looking for a new detective for the squad anyway, might as well let them know to keep an eye out for a second replacement just in case."

"Wait, wait, wait," you cut off, holding your hands up to stop her. "No one needs to be transferred. Let me talk to Rollins and sort this out."

"You will _not_ do that," she states firmly. "This entire squad is my responsibility now and it's my job to keep it in order. The last time you tried to help Rollins, you two caused a scene and I will not have that in my squad room. Do you understand?"

"Fine," you reply, closing your eyes and pinching the bridge of your nose. "But let me do something to help around here, Liv. You said it yourself, we're short-staffed and the people you expect to show up don't. I'm here. I'm not good with the desk duty so just let me try one tour, all right?"

"Nick," she exhales deeply and shakes her head. "It's just a few weeks since the shooting, okay? You don't know what could startle you."

"And you think I'll shoot somebody else?"

She stares back at you. "Or you could hesitate. PTSD is real, Nick. It's a process. Don't rush it."

"I know how PTSD works," you shoot back bitterly. The expression on her face flips from concern to exasperation, and it makes you feel like a jerk but you're too proud right now to say you're sorry. "You know what, I'll be on my desk if you need me."

You head towards the door. Reaching for the doorknob, you stop your movements and hesitate as you turn to face Liv. "I can admit that wanting to go back on active duty is about me wanting to feel normal again. But there's a huge part of me that wants to help the squad out, especially when half the people outside your office don't seem to give two shits about their jobs anymore. I'd happily trade places with them. That's got to count for something, right?"

"I get that, but it's too soon."

You give her a tight smile and tuck your chin before you walk out the door.

* * *

 _{'cause I know I don't belong, here in heaven}_

As soon as you're back in the bullpen ready to reopen those DD-5s, you catch Amanda scoping the room. Her impatience is manifested in the drumming of her fingers on her desk and the rhythmic tapping of her feet. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Swiftly stuffing the box in her pocket, she drapes her coat over her shoulders, ducks her head, and takes off with hardly anyone else noticing.

You've seen her smoke on those rare occasions the squad, or just the two of you, would cap the night off at a bar. Even then, she always excused herself and hid away from sight. So it piques your interest when she's unexpectedly taking smoke breaks at work.

Liv's instructions were to stay away from Amanda; but you just can't help yourself from looking into it. Even when she's acting strange and rather antagonistic, you still feel a sense of responsibility to protect her. And you know that's the last thing she wants and maybe it's the last thing she deserves after what she said to your partner; but, at the very least, you have to caution her about the possibility of a transfer if her behavior continues.

The sound of the metal door slamming against its frame startles her. You watch as her shoulders rise up to her ears and the lit cigarette quivers between her delicate fingers. She's leaning over the edge of the iron fence overlooking the streets below.

"What do you want?" Her voice is more chilling than the polluted slush collecting on the edge of the sidewalks.

"What is going on with you, Amanda?" You ask in all sincerity. You know Liv warned you not to bring this up but you can't just sit back and wait for Amanda to self-destruct and throw herself off the squad. Even if you are annoyed with her for what she said to your partner, you can't start off with that and expect her to cooperate.

She takes a long drag and lifts her head to blow smoke up in the air. "It's none of your fucking business."

"It is when it's affecting our jobs," you counter. "Is this because of what happened the other night? You started lashing out since we –"

"Really?" she interrupts, twisting her face into a disbelieving scowl. "That's when you picked up on it?"

You shrug your shoulders and take a step closer, but she retreats and recreates that distance between the two of you. The way she mocks your question makes you wonder if she has been acting strange earlier than you originally thought. But then again, can you really blame yourself for failing to catch those early cues? You were all so caught up in the mess of William Lewis' trial and then the shooting that it wasn't easy paying attention to all the other details at work.

"I'm being serious here. Are you in trouble?"

She scrunches up her nose before she laughs it off. "Course not. I've just been having fun and going out drinking with some friends… Not that you'd know anything about that."

You splay your fingers over your lips and let her words sink in. It's not the first time she's rubbed salt in your wounds to reinforce her self-reliance and to deflect from her own wounds.

"Why do you feel this need to stick your nose into my life?" she demands.

"You know what, I was just trying to help and give you a heads up," you respond, raising your arms up in surrender.

"For what?"

"Keep showing up to work late… and like this," you say, gesturing to her matted curls and the scent of nicotine and liquor on her breath. "And you might find yourself working somewhere else."

"Is this information straight from the new boss?" she laughs cryptically. "Must be nice to have your former partner calling the shots now, huh? Tell me, Nick, how does it feel when Liv is riding your ass and there's nothing you can do about it?"

"Hey, leave her out of this," you hiss, glaring intently into her cold blue eyes. "Liv is just doing her job and she didn't say anything you didn't deserve to hear. But you… you need to stop throwing her trauma in her face."

Amanda scoffs and flicks the ash on the railing. "Saint Nick jumping to Olivia's defense yet again… I wonder what Cassidy would think if he knew how you really felt about his girlfriend," she says, smirking. She takes a long puff before releasing the smoke into the bitter winter air.

"It's not like that," you defend yourself, shaking your head at the ridiculousness of the accusation. She's deviating from the matter at hand by trying to stir up shit and attacking you, just so she won't have to answer your questions. "You know it's not like that."

"Do I?" She feigns innocence. "Who knows, Nick, maybe you kiss all the girls you work with just to fuck with their heads."

"Wow," you gasp, steepling your fingers over your mouth. "So this is about the other night? You want to take it out on me, then fine; but don't drag Liv into this just because you're feeling vindictive."

"Oh my god! Shut up!" Amanda snaps, lifting her arms and dropping them in exasperation. She paces to the far end of the fire escape and stomps down on her cigarette. She turns on her heel and her eyes are clouded in a deeper hue, her pupils constricted. Her fists are balled up on her sides, her knuckles turning several shades lighter than her ivory skin.

"Not everything's about you, Nick," she hisses. "When are you ever going to get that? I'm not doing any of this because of a stupid kiss, okay? It's not about you – trust me, you're the last thing on my mind when I get off work. So kindly fuck off."

You're frozen as you stare back at her with wide eyes. Your hands are on your hips and your jaw is clenched; meanwhile she's got her arms crossed over her chest and her head tilted to the side. She's waiting for you to heed her request, but you don't move an inch.

"Look, I'm sorry if the kiss was confusing and messed things up between us. But, like I said that night, it's never going to work out if we both want to keep our jobs… I just want us to go back to being partners the way we used to, Amanda."

"Get over yourself!"

She marches across the fire escape and stabs a finger to your chest. Her face is flushed, her chin pointed up, and her breaths are short and rapid.

You lower your head to meet her glare. "Well, if this ain't about me, then why the cold shoulder?"

Her hand spreads across your chest and she pushes you back. "Drop it."

"No, really, please enlighten me," you egg her on. "I want to know why you've been ignoring me and why you're all of a sudden throwing away your career for a drink."

"Seriously?" Her brows are creased and her lips are scrunched up in a sardonic smile. "You have your head so far up your ass…" she trails off, waving her hand dismissively.

When she starts to walk away, you grasp her by the arm and pull her back. "I'm just looking out for you."

Her first reaction is to tense at your touch, but she slowly relaxes as her eyes flicker down to your mouth. She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. When she blinks and opens her eyes, stormy irises give way to dilated pupils. Your skin feels hot. Your hand on her arm slides down to her wrist, enveloping her hand, intertwining with her fingers. She glances down at both your hands held together and that's when she sees it.

Her brows crease when she catches a glimpse of the silver ring adorning your finger. She flinches and stretches away from you, pulling the hand you were just holding up to her chest. She inhales sharply then releases a heavy breath. "You're going back to her?"

You lower your head and wrap your hand around the back of your neck. "Yeah… I have to do the right thing, Amanda. I have to get my old life back. I need my family… my wife."

She looks at you like that last word was poison on your lips.

"The right thing?" She laughs wryly. "You think you're a good person just because you're doing what you think is right?"

You sigh and shrug your shoulders. "I'm married and I need to be faithful to that commitment. I'm sorry if that's not what you want to hear –"

"—No, no, no… I don't give a fuck, Nick," she says, shaking her head. "But don't come here, accusing me of having an attitude with you, when all along you've been planning to get back together with your wife. I mean, how shady can you be?"

"Look, honestly, I hadn't even thought about it until last night."

She rears her head back and looks at you in complete shock. "I don't want to hear it. Besides, I'm not going to get bent out of shape over your marriage that's already hit the skids anyway. But hey, best of luck."

"Thanks," you reply with just as much sarcasm.

She paces back toward you and she simply shakes her head. "You're so addicted to your own misery that you're choosing to relive it," she sneers.

"Are you done?" you retort, clenching your jaw.

"No, I'm not," she says, getting so close to your face you can feel her breath on your skin. There's a split second she hesitates before she puts you on blast. "I bet deep inside you think none of this is really your fault, because you're _Nick Amaro_ and you follow the rules and you honor your commitments. But really, you're just another self-absorbed asshole."

She holds your eyes for a moment before she steps aside and walks around you. The door slams shut. You find yourself cold and alone just like that last encounter with Amanda. A numbness penetrates your body and it makes you insensible to the cold and the noise around you; but your mind is going a mile a minute, working diligently to strike out her words from your memory. But her words are like fuel to the fire, and you feel even more determined to prove her wrong and put the pieces of your marriage back together.

Amanda was just a distraction on a night when you needed someone to grant you an escape from reality. Darkness caused you to lose your way and so you took a series of wrong turns. But now that the sun has risen and you have faith in heavenly beings to guide you, there's hope of finding your way back home.


	7. Outlines

_**AN** : Hello. I just want to jump into this chapter because it's a long one. But before you start on it, I want to say thank you to those who left reviews for chapter six. You guys seemed to like the rollaro fight but now you want me to fix it. I don't know... I feel like things have to get A LOT worse before things get better. So y'all might hate me (or Nick) for this chapter... _

_Anyway, chapter title and {lyrics} are from Outlines by AlunaGeorge. I posted a link of the video on twitter. Follow me ianasea and talk to me._

 ** _Read, enjoy, and please review._**

 _P.S. Here's to hoping Zara will put a smile on your face._

* * *

 **Ruined Beyond Redemption**

 **7\. Outlines**

* * *

 _{sometimes it gives me a fear that you were never here}_

The fight with Amanda at the fire escape has you down for the count. You're staring up at the lights on the rafters and you're barely catching onto the slow motion delivery of your knockout. Then the door slams and suddenly you're not in the middle of the ring anymore; you're left alone standing out in the cold.

You pick yourself back up and shake it off.

Amanda can be angry at you all she wants, she can choose not to heed your warning, and she can call you a self-absorbed asshole; but you're not going to cement yourself to that spot and brood. You know, that's all you've been doing for a while now and it's done jack shit to help you in any way shape or form. The doom and gloom doesn't have to linger, and you don't want to make it worse for yourself by involving another person into your problems. Especially when that person is just another complication, at best.

The mountain of responsibilities is piling up and the climb ahead is becoming far too steep. Trying to rehabilitate whatever relationship you previously had with Amanda just isn't worth your time or your effort anymore. Not when she's so determined to call you out and push you away. What's the point? You don't need someone else that you're going to have to endure, because to be honest, you're just not up to it anymore.

So you choke down those looks you exchanged. The ones where you saw that flicker of lust burning in her eyes, before your gaze traveled down to her lips. The ones where she stood inches from you, her nicotine and winter breath grazing your skin. You try to erase the memory of your hand on her harm, slipping down to hold her hand and interlock your fingers.

Until she saw your wedding ring.

And you probably should've talked to her before you slipped it on and paraded around with it like a careless jerk. It was a dumb and reckless move. But then again, she refused to speak to you; and she did make herself perfectly clear that night on your stoop that the kiss, or anything along those lines, would never happen again. So it's not like you owed it to her to warn her. It's not like you needed to ask permission or make sure her feelings weren't hurt before you went off to mend bridges with your wife.

You got your spiritual guidance. You know what's good for your soul and your sanity. Whatever it is that could have happened between you and Amanda can't even be valued as history, because that would require some truth and consequence. It's over. It doesn't matter. It's white noise.

In the aftermath of the confrontation, you feel this inexplicable rush of adrenaline through your veins. You're not sure what fuels it – if it's rage over the things she said, or the elation you feel because now you have clarity. Where your emotions used to be this clusterfuck, now it makes sense that Amanda was a test – a roadblock – before you got yourself back the righteous path. It's set in stone; you're going to DC, you're going to sit down with Maria, and you're going to work on your marriage.

Your adrenaline is channeled in your persistence to get the gears in motion in all aspects of your life – personally and professionally. So, your chance arrives when new developments in the Clare Wilson case force the unit into chasing new leads in Jersey, where bureaucracy is both slow and ineffective.

Taking your chances, you go up to Liv and tell her that the team needs you there in order to have a show of power. It makes you sound like the muscle behind the operation when, really, any of your colleagues are skilled in the art of intimidation and command of a weapon. Still, you puff your chest out and square your shoulders to make the point, because you'll do whatever it takes to help your case.

Your sergeant looks at you with that you-can't-be-fucking-serious-right-now look, which you've been on the receiving end since the moment you were shackled to your desk. But this time, you're not backing down.

This case is running them to the ground and they need all the help they can get; and here you are, a trained and experienced detective, and they're not using you because of some PR nightmare that they're using as a bullshit excuse. You've completed the mandatory retraining in record time (mostly because you've wanted to avoid coming home to their apartment, especially when you know Liv won't be around), and you're on the last stretch of your anger management sessions. And although the brass has approved your return to active duty by virtue of precedent, they did send her that letter suggesting it was in Liv's best interest as a new commanding officer to bench you until further notice. All things considered, the decision was up to her.

You're just waiting on her call.

Liv won't admit it but you see firsthand how the new role is overwhelming her. You have no doubts about her ability and expertise in handling the sex crimes division of the NYPD. If anyone can and should do it, it's Liv. Regardless, she's new to the job and she's too apprehensive to make any mistakes this early on, so she's fairly cautious about unshackling you from your desk and releasing you back out on the streets with your gun.

Giving her go-to excuse, she tells you it's "Too soon."

And because you have a bad case of foot-in-mouth disease, you counter, "For me or for you?"

You speak too soon and you speak out of frustration, so your words give off the wrong impression and now she's insulted. Immediately, when you observe the scowl twisting her mouth, you want to take it back. It never once crossed your mind that she wasn't ready to be in command. Even after all the shit she went through last spring with Lewis and in recent weeks with the trial, you still wouldn't have used her trauma as a reason to why she shouldn't be in charge of the squad. So you falter, trying to correct your mistake.

In the end, you pull the trust card from your back pocket, quoting something she once said to Cragen. You both know how long it took you to earn her trust when you were first assigned to be her partner. She was still dealing with the after-effects of her old partner leaving, so she was distrustful of new blood. People in the bullpen thought of you as the replacement, which sucked; but Liv didn't even think you were anywhere near worthy.

For weeks, all you heard were stories and rumors about Stabler and Benson's ironclad, albeit tumultuous, partnership. Unis had theories about where he had disappeared, whether or not he was ever going to make contact with his partner again, if he had gone off the deep-end and ate his gun… You tried to stay away from all the talk because you didn't want to feel like you had shoes to fill.

But, then, if you were making a concerted effort to stay away from the gossip mill, then it made you wonder how much of it Liv had heard. It made sense for her to have some bad blood with her ex-partner just because the office gossip was a constant reminder of his desertion; but it still wasn't fair for her to doubt or distrust you.

Nevertheless, you were patient enough to earn your partner's trust. And whether that happened before or after you saved her life from Graham Winger doesn't even matter, because your loyalty to each other is so much stronger than any of those trivial details.

"If you can't trust me, I'm done."

It's another case of speaking too soon, because right when you've blurted it out you remember _when_ she said those words to Cragen. It was her first case back since the abduction. During that time, everyone seemed to think they knew what was best for her and knew she wasn't ready to go back. They wanted to relegate her to desk duty so she could avoid triggers. It was almost as if these people she worked with for over a decade had forgotten about her strength and resilience. It's like they didn't know how much of her recovery relied on how much she found purpose in her job.

So you had her back.

At any rate, you were extra vigilant and you found yourself casting glances at her a lot more just to make sure she was still there in the flesh. But not once did you ever doubt her abilities or her mindset, even when the others warned you not to let your loyalty cloud your judgment.

The context of your statement aside, Liv starts to understand where you're coming from. This is your Hail Mary, pleading to her that it's not just the action of the job you need – it's her trust. You need her to believe in you at a time when you feel deserted.

You're desperate to get your life back in order and your work needs to mean something to you, too. It shouldn't feel like something that's slowly killing you. And Liv – _thank God_ ; she senses that.

Your proud persistence gets you nowhere; but it's your honest desperation that prevails.

 _{it's not like a déjà vu and it's not an illusion  
but sometimes I feel you through all the confusion}_

Most sexual assault cases don't always reveal themselves upon first review; they unravel bit-by-bit, exposing intricate affairs and betrayals. Sometimes, the unraveling happens at a larger scale; for instance, when institutions that are supposed to uphold the legal system are the instigators and beneficiaries of a sex trafficking conspiracy.

Dealing with the uncooperative Hudson County legal system is pushing the team to the brink of exhaustion. It's requiring a lot of legwork, especially for Barba who's overcoming backlogs and bullshit to make some headway on the case. You see him working painstakingly to ensure that the corruption is exposed and Clare's rapist gets his day in court. Unfortunately, the detective assigned to meet him in Jersey City is a no-show. Again.

When you receive a call from Barba, you ask Fin if he has any idea of his partner's whereabouts. There's nothing strange or unpredicted about your question; after all, the ADA did just call you. And you certainly don't think you're meddling in her affairs. You promised yourself you would stay out of her business, so you've been biting your tongue all week even when she's done some things to raise your suspicions. But Fin picks up on it right away, particularly when you allude to the fact that Rollins was late to meet Liv at the hospital.

He thinks you two are squabbling again; and while that isn't too far from the truth, you actually haven't spoken to each other apart from succinct updates on the investigation. You make it clear to Fin that you don't have a problem with her. And you convince yourself that you don't because last night's anger management class has reminded you, once again, to kiss your grudges goodbye.

 _To accept the things you cannot change._

In any case, you tell Fin - and only because he's her partner and he'll never rat her out – that you're worried she has a problem.

The chronic coffee refills, the bug-eyed sunglasses, and the smeared makeup are clues that she's not spending her nights in bed curled up next to her sick dog. Your intuition tells you she's relapsed and she's back into gambling, but you don't want to say it out loud because you don't want to be the jackass accusing her of something that probably isn't even true. And if you were to spell it out for Fin and he came to her with your theory, then it would give her even more of a reason to hate you and accuse you of overstepping her boundaries.

Fin reminds you that you're still coming off of the shooting, so you should focus on yourself right now. He's right. At least, that's what you were trying to do before you received that phone call from Barba and your worries started acting up again. You know, it's a lot easier said than done to completely detach yourself, especially when it's in your very nature to be protective and concerned for the people you care about. And it's not like that; you coax yourself into believing the half-baked truth. You care about Amanda, and it's got nothing to do with a backpedalled attraction or a misinterpreted kiss; but everything to do with the fact that she's every bit a part of this team.

But Fin's right. You need to let this go and let her be. You need to focus on yourself.

* * *

 _{it's not just the quiet times, not just at the end of the night  
_ _he can get me when I'm feeling fine even when I'm feeling bright}_

Thursday morning long before the sun is up, Cassidy walks out of their bedroom all dressed and ready to go to his big-boy job at IAB. He makes a detour to the kitchen, floundering between the choice of a banana or a Snickers bar for breakfast. When he chooses the chocolate, you can't help but snort a laugh. He whips his head around to see you awake and reclined on the couch.

"Morning."

He grunts a response before he eats a third of the bar with one bite. "Hey, you remember what time Liv got in last night?"

You push yourself up from the couch with your elbows so you're leaning against the armrest. You're on the fence about telling him the truth - that Liv came home less than two hours ago. But you shrug your shoulders and decide to spare him the justified outrage and suspicion. "I must've been asleep."

He eyes you carefully.

You lift a brow in response.

"You sure?" He asks you.

"I don't know how you sleep, Cassidy, but when I do I'm unconscious"

"Smartass," he mutters between chews. As he fills his glass with orange juice, you notice his brows knitting together like he's deep in thought, and you can only imagine that it's got something to do with his girlfriend.

"Why don't you just ask her?"

"Ask her what?"

Staying at your partner's apartment has somewhat improved your relationship with Cassidy, in that you're not pointing guns to his head and he's not leading an internal affairs crusade on your ass. But sometimes you just really wonder what Liv sees in him. He has a long history of sleeping with hookers; he's crass and a bit of a dumbass. You don't think he's a horrible person because, after all, he's always been supportive of your partner. And sure, they care for each other but beyond that, it seems as if they're sticking around for each other because it feels like the right thing to do after last spring's ordeal. No one wants to be the guy who breaks up with his girlfriend right after a serious bout of mental and physical torture. You don't want to call it 'settling' but that's how it appears – at least from an outsider's perspective.

"Ask her what time she got in."

"Ah," Cassidy exhales. He walks out of the kitchen and heads for the door, but then he freezes just as he's about to turn the knob. "Amaro, I'm gonna need you to do me a solid and not be here tonight. I got the night off and I know Liv's not on call tonight so…"

"You need me to leave so you two can have sex?"

He narrows his eyes, scratches the side of his head, then points at you in an accusing way. "No… Yes… Goddamnit, Amaro. I don't need your outside commentary. Look, I just made some plans to order in and hang out with my girl, ok?"

"Your girl?" you ask him, smirking. You have to admit, it's rather amusing seeing Cassidy get defensive on the topic of his girlfriend. If you weren't so sleep-deprived, you would've probably given him a hard time about it. But he looks a little nervous, a little hopeful; so you elect to give him the answer he's looking for. "Yeah, man, I got it."

"Great," he says, then he hesitates before he asks, "by the way, how's she holding up at work?"

"She seems fine… I mean, she's got a lot more paperwork to fill out now that she's CO. And we got this case that has us dealing with the Jersey courts and DOC… You know what a shitshow that can be."

He chuckles and shakes his head. "Fucking Jersey, man."

"Yeah," you trail off, twisting your lips into a faint smile.

He looks at you, eyes widening slightly with expectation. You almost feel bad for him because he has to talk to you to know what's going on with the woman sleeping in his bed.

"Liv, she –" you start, looking over to the closed door down the hall. A part of you feels guilty you're having this conversation with Cassidy behind her back. But you sense his concern and you know the guy's got good intentions, so you placate him without tattling on your partner. Just to ease his mind. Because you're way too familiar with what paranoia feels like. "She's busy and overworked, but Liv's got it all under control."

And you don't just mean her command over the position and her responsibility to delegate assignments. The look on his face is one of comprehension _(finally)_ ; and Cassidy picks up the double meaning behind your words and nods his head once.

"Thanks, man," he says and then he's gone.

* * *

 _{it doesn't always make me feel sad  
_ _but it never really makes me feel glad}_

All of Cassidy's efforts to set up a romantic evening of Thai take-out and movies on demand may all be for naught when you learn that Liv is looking for any excuse to stay in her office tonight. Everyone's hitting roadblocks and going in circles with this case, but she insists on poring over her notes and her files for the hundredth time. She's about to make the call to cancel on Cassidy when you advance into her office and tell her you'll stay and finish her work. Besides, you could use the overtime hours.

At first, she declines the offer, going through her phone book to scroll down her recent calls. You aren't surprised to learn that her boyfriend isn't at the top of the list. After all, in the apartment, they've been passing each other like ships in the night. Cassidy's been doing UC work for Tucker and he's gone a few days at a time; and whenever he's home, Liv's disappearing for "calls" that aren't in the log when you come into work the next morning.

Eventually you convince her to drop the phone when you clue her in on Cassidy asking you to find another place to crash tonight. Your wagging eyebrows don't go unnoticed by Liv, who narrows her eyes at you before she looks away embarrassed.

Your poor opinion of Cassidy has never been a close-guarded secret, but you do respect him for being by Liv's side all summer. Those few times you came to visit your partner, he was always around to make sure she was eating and sleeping, and that she was showing up to see her therapist. Working security at the Bronx courthouse and, now, investigating for IAB – the hours aren't great. And neither are the hours working at SVU. But at least you can see that he's still trying; too bad you can't say the same about Liv.

She is your partner though, and you know you're always going to be at her corner. What are you supposed to do? For starters, you don't even know where she's going and what, or rather _who_ , she's doing; so there's nothing to divulge. But bumming on their couch and watching their relationship fray is getting tiresome.

It's then that Fin's advice to focus on yourself reverberates in your head, and you wish following advice were as easy as repeating the words over and over in your head like some sort of self-inflicted hypnosis.

 _Stop getting involved, Nick. Stop getting involved, Nick. Stop getting involved, Nick…_

You could always let it play out the way Liv wants – with her working until ten or eleven, then sneaking off after hours to meet her mystery date for drinks. But as much as you want Liv happy, whatever secret she has going on is not doing it for her. And maybe being in a relationship with Cassidy isn't her road to happiness either, but it's a hell of a lot more respectable. You hate to say it, but you can't stand the thought of your partner being a liar and a cheater. In your head, you've unintentionally placed her up on this pedestal and it just seems so contradictory for her to act this way.

As her friend, you try your best not to judge; but on principle, you know what she's doing is wrong.

The remedy to these relationship problems and miscommunication is not to make a break for it. You probably shouldn't even dole out any advice with the state of your marriage right now, but you've been spending a lot of sleepless nights thinking this over. It's about facing up to your mistakes and forgiving the other person for theirs. It's not about ignoring the problem until it comes to a head and you're forced to deal with it; it's about meeting your obligations when you decided to pursue a relationship with another person.

So, you guide Liv into making the right choice by helping her into her coat and steering her toward the elevator.

And maybe tonight, when Liv doesn't really have a choice but to spend time with him, maybe they'll talk it out and sort through their issues. As corny as it sounds, you'd like to believe that everyone is a better version of themselves when they have someone who cares for them and loves them. And Cassidy loves her.

* * *

 _{is this paper all I've got, all I've got to keep you with me?  
_ _keep you from fading away}_

Friday afternoon just as the sun is setting in the horizon, you drive to D.C. to make things right with your wife. The question of whether or not doing the right thing makes you a good person still hangs in the back of your head; but you've chosen to ignore that Southern voice in your conscience. Instead you keep your mind focused on the road ahead and you keep your fingers crossed that your surprise pans out the way you've been picturing it all week.

At the very least, you hope to sit down and discuss the possibility of cleaning the slate from the past year and starting over as a family.

The neighborhood where your wife spent her childhood is called Spring Valley. Just outside the city, the wide streets are lined with traditional colonial homes with spacious yards and hundred-year-old oak trees. You park the car down the street from the Grazies' home, which sits at the end of a cul de sac. There's a tire swing out front that's out of commission because of the patches of ice and snow on the ground.

Walking up the path to the house, you ring the doorbell and without delay Carina, your mother-in-law, welcomes you inside. She bears a striking resemblance to Maria, even having similar mannerisms and inflections. Carina looks at you with concern and asks you a million questions a minute. _Have you eaten? How was the drive? Are you here to pick up Zara? I heard about the shooting; how are you?_ After assuring her that you stopped by at a 7 Eleven for dinner and insisting she didn't have to reheat the roast chicken for you, you tell her you've _never been better_. It's not the truth, but you wouldn't even consider ruining your mother-in-law's perpetually pleasant mood by telling her how you really feel.

At the sound of your voice, Zara's little footsteps bound down the stairs. She skips over the last step and leaps into your arms, holding on so tight you have to pretend you're coughing so she lets go of your neck. She pulls away to smile at you; and it's that smile that melts away all your troubles. Planting a kiss on the top of her head, you listen as she rambles on about school and her active social life. She beams with pride when she tells you about the perfect score on her math test, and she grins mischievously when she tells you about spilling glitter all over her snowman in art class.

"So that explains why you're glowing like a disco ball," you say, using your thumb to swipe glitter from her cheek.

"I already ran her bath," Carina sighed with a doting smile. "It really gets everywhere."

Zara continues to talk excitedly about her day, rattling off names of new friends she met in ice skating class. It turns out that grandma takes her to the malls on Mondays and Wednesdays so she can learn how to spin in the air like the ice skaters she watched in the Winter Olympics. Then on Tuesdays and Thursdays, she's been going to gymnastics at the community center while, according to Zara, "nonna dances her zooooom-ba!"

"Wow, sounds like you girls have been keeping busy."

"This piccola keeps me young," she says, pressing an eskimo kiss on Zara's nose.

Lieutenant General Vincenzo Grazie joins you all at the foyer. Letting Zara off your hip, you shake the hand of your father-in-law – a formal greeting for a very formal man. Unlike his wife, who is kindhearted and welcoming, Vince is a man of few words and a poker face that would make anyone in Atlantic City green with envy. Although he's always been stoic and stern, you can't help but associate the icy look in his eyes with the recent shooting and the separation with Maria.

He's always been a traditional man who brought up his only child and only daughter in a very strict household. He scolded Maria for being unfocused and 'soft' when she told him that she met someone at base. He hated you even more when you decided to leave your post in the military to finish your training in the police academy. Apparently, choosing NYPD blues over army fatigues was considered disgraceful in his eyes.

Vince's influence and his input in her life were the main reasons why you and Maria broke up in 2002, and why you had even entertained the idea of a relationship with Cynthia. Going UC after that breakup seemed like the sensible and most emotionally sound thing to do at the time. Maria didn't see it like that, even though it was her idea that you both needed time apart. She thought it was a cowardly move for you to go under without any contact, but then you reminded her that it was her - and her father's - decision to end the relationship.

Since then, it's been an uphill battle trying to win over your father-in-law. But when you asked for his permission to marry his daughter, he finally gave you his approval and accepted you as his son.

And if anyone wants you and Maria to stay together – even in the midst of all this mess – it would be Vince because no one else values honor, commitment, and loyalty more than he does. As much as he probably despises you right now for hurting his daughter, he expects you to fight for her.

When Zara catches her breath from her torrent of stories, she tries to drag you up the stairs to her room so she can show you the dollhouse her nonno built her.

"Wait. Hold on, baby."

"I'm not a baby anymore." She pouts, balling her fists and stomping her foot.

You kneel down so you're at her level. "I know. I'm sorry, niña bonita."

With a satisfied smirk, Zara twirls and jumps, grabbing onto your hand to pull you up the steps.

"Yeah, can you please give daddy a second?" You say, and she stops pulling but she's not releasing your hand. Turning to her grandparents, you ask, "Where's Maria?"

Carina and Vince exchange a look. "She's been busy all week with a project…"

Vince scoffs. "She might as well be deployed in Afghanistan with her hours."

His wife presses her lips together and gives him a harsh look.

"No, it's fine. I can wait," you say, smiling with reassurance. "If it's all right with the two of you, of course."

"Stay as long as you want, honey," Carina says, waving her hand and shaking her head. "I'll set up the guest room for you."

"Thanks, but that won't be necessary. I'm staying at the Holiday Inn just off the exit."

"Ok, well, the room will be ready in case you change your mind."

"Thank you, Carina."

"Daddy," Zara calls you again with a mixture of both impatience and excitement. She tugs at your arm and ends up falling on her butt. Laughing at her predicament and pouting face, you sling her over your shoulder in a fireman's carry and take her upstairs. She cries for you to put her down in between fits of giggles; she's clearly enjoying being hoisted off the ground in spite of her bellyaching protests. When you drop her on her bed, she tries to escape but the tickle monster appears without warning. Her laugh is contagious as she throws around her arms and legs and her cheeks turn tomato-red.

The next hour is quality daddy-daughter time. The two of you hang out in her room while she shows off her ice skates and sparkly gymnastics leotard. She insists that you play with her dollhouse; so you try to rearrange the miniature furniture into their respective rooms, but she maintains that the couch should go in the bathroom and the toilet should remain in the bedroom. You don't argue with her logic and wild imagination, playing along as the designated prince.

"I never get to be the dragon." You pout. And she giggles and kisses your cheek to pacify you.

While there have been a lot of changes in your daughter's life in the last year and a half, there are still some things that don't have to change. When you tell her it's time for bed, she knows the special bedtime routine you've both mastered since she was crawling around in diapers. She leads the way to the bathroom down the hall. Pulling up a stool, she leans over the sink to brush her teeth while you slowly count up to a hundred. When she spits out, she pretends her arm is tired but then she flashes you her pearly whites for inspection, and when you give her two thumbs up, her smile stretches across her face.

Zara hops off the stool and scurries back into her room to go through her bookshelves. She pulls out a Pippi Longstocking book and climbs into bed, getting under the covers in such a hurry that she knocks down half the stuffed animals on top of her bedspread. You reach down to pick up Allie, her pink alligator that she's had since she was four and you took her down to Miami to meet her cousins. When Maria was deployed you told her that every time she missed her mom, she should hug Allie because it would be like hugging mommy.

Nothing could have prepared you for the night before Maria took her to D.C. You were tucking Zara in bed and she said, "Mommy told me you're staying here while we live with nonno and nonna for a while… So when I hug Allie, it's 'cause I miss you, daddy."

Zara curls her arms around the alligator and looks up to you as you open the book. While you're reading the story of Pippi's attempts to join the circus, she laughs at your silly voices and finishes the sentences of the characters. By the end of the story, your throat is parched and your body is succumbing to exhaustion; and apparently so is your daughter who has fallen asleep.

Your lips brush against her forehead to kiss her good night.

Checking your watch, you note that it's half past nine and Maria still isn't home. Carina did say that she was buried with work, and you're trying to understand because you know what it's like to have a demanding job. But it's not like she's on-call; and she's on a communications post so it's not like her work involves life-threatening situations. You pack in your doubts and breathe out.

But something about it doesn't sit well with you. It makes you feel uneasy to learn she's leaving Zara in the care of her grandparents. But can you really say anything when you're all the way out in New York and you're essentially a weekend parent? And even back when your daughter was living with you, you didn't have much of a choice but to leave her to the care of your mom. It doesn't seem fair to bring it up to Maria, but you still can't help but feel agitated and suspicious that she hasn't come home yet to tuck her daughter into bed.

There's no need to lose your cool, you remind yourself when your first thought is that she's in danger. Can you really blame yourself for going there with your overly cautious mind after what happened to Liv?

Settling beside your daughter, you lean against the headboard and look down at her sleeping frame. Just her presence calms you and you. She looks so peaceful and so happy here. Her room's twice the size it was back in New York; she's signed up for all of these classes and making all these new friends. It's both exhilarating and frightening to see your daughter grow up into the spitting image of her mother, with your intense emotions and a bright personality that's all her own. Zara's thriving, and while it makes you happy to see it, you are explicitly aware that you are disconnected from all of it.

People say having a child is like having your heart running around inside someone else's body. What makes it so much more painful is when you can't even be with your child everyday.

This trip was supposed to be about fixing your marriage so Maria and Zara could move back to New York with you. But now, the prospect of moving out of the city and living somewhere quieter, with lots of space to run around; working a job with less stress – it all starts to sound appealing. And the best thing you can do for your daughter is to love and be with her mother, and you don't want to deprive Zara of that because of reparable disagreements between you and your wife.

The only reason keeping you from taking that leap is your son. You can't leave Gil, especially after you were unwittingly absent for the first nine years of his life. It's much easier when other people do the leaving, rather than have the blame on you for making the deliberate choice. But you wonder if there's ever a possibility that both your children can live with you, or at least live within the same city. If only you could tie up all these loose ends into a knot and secure it to yourself, then maybe there's a chance of never disappointing anyone.

 _{and I can't help tracing these outlines of you}_

You're absently stroking Zara's hair when you see headlights flash through her window. Getting off the bed, you walk toward the window and shift the curtains to look down at the street below. A white BMW is parked in front of the house and no one steps outside. You wait a few minutes before your suspicions are raised in view of some stranger waiting out in front of your in-laws' place; so you tiptoe downstairs to head out through the front door.

What you see when you step outside forces you into a standstill. There's a silhouette of a woman in a pencil skirt and a slim wool coat, leaning into the driver's side window. You know those legs anywhere. She pops one leg back, the heel of her stiletto pointing directly at you like a gun waiting to go off.

She's kissing him.

A scowl forms on your face and your arms cross over your chest. She pulls her head back just far enough that you can barely see the shadows of the man who kissed your wife. His eyes meet yours and he mouths something to her. A fraction of a second later, Maria darts around and she looks almost like a deer in the headlights. Turning to the driver, she says something in a hurry and waves him off. His shoulders drop in a shrug before he speeds off into the night.

Maria walks with an unsteady gait up the path, stumbling when her heel gets caught between the bricks. She quickly regains her balance and swipes her hair out of her face.

"What are you doing here?" She hisses.

"Who was that?"

"No, you do not get to ask me that," she laughs darkly. It becomes quite obvious that she's had too much to drink tonight. Not exactly what you imagined her doing when she was allegedly busy at work in the Pentagon. "We're not having this discussion."

You lower your gaze to meet her eyes. "Who was that?"

"Why do you even care?" she replies, turning her shoulder away from you and squinting her eyes in a cold glare. "Our lawyers are reviewing the conditions of the divorce so as far as I'm concerned, I don't have to answer to you. I've never had to answer to you."

Ignoring her defiance, you ask the question that's been pressing on your mind since the moment you opened that front door and saw her tongue deep in some other man's throat. "How long have you been seeing him?"

"Nick, stop!"

"Does Zara know about him?"

"Nick…" she warns. She crosses her arms across her chest to mimic your stance. "Zara's met Colin a few times but she thinks he's just a friend from work, so don't get any ideas."

"Ideas? What are you trying to say here?" you ask, brows furrowing and mouth twisting into a frown. "You think I'm going to look into this guy?"

She scoffs. "Don't even pretend that you're above stalking someone to get revenge. Just because you were forced to take those classes doesn't mean you're any different than you were a year ago. You're just as jealous now as that time you thought I was having an affair with Jason." She takes a step toward you and points at your face. "Look, I can see it in your eyes… I bet you're just dying to know if we've fucked… I bet it's killing you knowing some other man is fucking your wife."

"Maria, you've had too much to drink," you say, grabbing her hand that's close to your face. She pulls away and scrunches up her face in disgust.

"Go ahead, look him up! You won't find anything," she provokes. "You know, you're one to talk considering your rap sheet. At least I don't have to worry about him being accused of a hate crime."

"Wow!" You take a step back and pace up the path, covering your mouth with your hand. "Seriously, M? You're going to use that against me? You know, I never really expected you to drop everything and be there for me after the shooting and the grand jury. All I got was one phone call from you. One! Telling me that I needed to send Zara back to D.C. because you were going to file for sole custody. And you know what, I complied because I knew it was safer for her… But you – you who gave me so much shit for not being a fucking psychic and figuring out you had PTSD… you never even asked me how I was coping."

"I – I've been busy," she stammers.

"Yeah, busy fucking some son of a bitch who doesn't even have the decency to walk you to the door."

"Nick."

"So this is who you've been doing instead of being at home with our daughter?"

Her jaw drops and she blinks several times. "What? Don't you dare suggest that I'm a bad mother," she cries, pushing you hard on the chest. "I want you to leave. Now."

"Fine. But I'm picking up Zara first thing in the morning," you declare. "Someone needs to spend time with her while you're _too busy_ messing around with some guy."

"Fuck you."

Her palm flies across your cheek; but before you can even recover from the sting and process what just happened, she throws herself at you and starts to pull on your shirt. The only thing you can do is freeze as memories of your childhood start to haunt you. You can feel it. Someone yanking you by the shirt and dragging you down the hall into the bedroom. The door closing behind you. The blow of fists connecting with your stomach, where tomorrow's Superman t-shirt can hide the bruises and hide the reality that you're not so _Super_. The sound of his voice cussing you out because you can't suppress the sobs anymore…

You snap back into it and feel present just as Maria pounds her fists against your chest. She's too inebriated for any of it to hurt and leave bruises, but it's still breaking your fucking heart to be at the receiving end of it when _she knows_.

She knows better.

You steady her and hold her wrists with her hand. "You're drunk. Let's go inside…" you say in a calm voice.

"No, leave me alone."

"Just let me help you inside. Come on." Wrapping an arm around her waist, you walk her all the way up to the porch where she struggles and shoves you off.

"No! Get your hands off me!"

You stand back and watch her, mascara streaks running down her face, before she turns around and walks inside the house. Hearing the click of the lock, you close your eyes and when you open them, the porch light has turned off.

Nothing goes as planned. Neither one of you talked and worked out your problems, but it did serve to shed light on a lot of things you forced into the shadows a long time ago. At that moment, you realize that you're making a decision that hammers the final nail in the coffin of your marriage. As much as God and good, honorable men would choose to try harder, you come to your own conclusions and choose, instead, to walk away and let go.

Walking back down to your car, you remember something Liv told you earlier that day after you wrapped up the case and made hopeful plans for the weekend.

" _Nothing changes, except what has to."_


	8. Moving On

**AN:** _Apparently, I've forgotten how to stick to my 4,000 word limit per chapter. I don't know if I should apologize for long chapters. Should I? Anyway, I want to say THANK YOU to the people who left reviews for chapter seven. Someone asked about rollaro in the last chapter, and I'm sorry to say that ship has sunk (jk - although, this is what Warren told me but, fortunately, he doesn't pay me so I don't have to answer to him). There will be more of Nick in DC this chapter so not much room for him to interact with Amanda, but I made it extra long just to squeeze in some rollaro, ok? :) And there will be more Bensaro friendship where we learn a little bit more about what's going on with Olivia. TW: child abuse (nothing too graphic though). Chapter title and {lyrics} are Moving On by Mat Kearney._

 _Please read, enjoy, and review._

* * *

 **Ruined Beyond Redemption**

 **8\. Moving On**

* * *

 _{well you lit the match and I got caught in the flames}_

The bed is cold. The covers, the blanket, and the sheets wrap neat and flat along the edges of the mattress. Your only source of light the moment you step into the room is the green glow from the sign outside. You throw the key card and your wedding band on top of the table. Kicking off your shoes, you stretch out on the bed, your socks picking up static from the beige carpet with bleached stains. Closing your eyes, you allow the darkness to lull you to a wishful state of unconsciousness.

Even with your sewn eyes and the silence that saturates the room, there's a wildfire reflecting back into your consciousness. Crackling flames lick your skin. Bare feet leap over fallen branches, and arms cut through hanging thorns. Ash and smoke rise to cloud your vision; this absence of light leaves you without direction so you keep going, keep running. Until you feel a blow to your chest, knocking you down to the ground. "What are you doing, Nicky?" asks a booming voice in the thick of darkness. And as the chasing light reaches you and the voice fades into nothing, you're swallowed up by your demons.

Jolting awake, your chest heaves and your head turns left and right to see nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary. The only thing that's disheveled in the room is you. Running your hands over your face, you silently pray for the nightmare to withdraw from your system and stay in the past where it belongs. You repeat the mantra in your head, _'your past has no power over you.'_

It's hard to tell if your face is damp or if your palms are just sweaty. You feel sick and in need to wash the day's grime and the night's fright off your body. You peel yourself off the bed and head toward the bathroom. Your eyes blink to adjust to the glaring fluorescent light; the blue tinge brings out the dark circles and the crow's feet around your eyes. Your fingers brush against the roughness and the faint shadow of a face that hasn't seen a razor blade in two days. It's too depressing to see what the last few weeks have done to your appearance, so you turn away from the mirror and start to undress. You turn the shower on and wait a few seconds until the water is almost scalding. You need it to be at that temperature if you want to wash it off your skin. Fight fire with fire, so to speak.

Stepping into the shower, you stand under the hot spray and resist the urge to dodge the burn. Sometimes it takes another kind of pain to distract from the pain you really don't want to feel. So you let the water run down your body until your skin adapts and your muscles relax; the tension slowly dissipates. Once your nerves are no longer sending survival signals to your brain, you pick up the complimentary bar of soap and scrub yourself clean until the bar is down to a sliver.

Your right hand brushes up against your length and you don't feel it stir to life. It's been a while since you last felt any desire, any need to give yourself comfort. There was that one time when you kissed Amanda and you felt that rush of excitement pooling below your belt, but your excuses caught up to you and subdued your hunger. You can't really complain about your waning libido seeing as you have no one to take care of your needs anyway. What's troubling, though, is how little you seem to care.

You return to bed and don't even bother putting clothes on. This time, you get under the covers and try to get as comfortable as the unfamiliar bed will let you. But within the first hour of tossing and turning, you soon realize that a shower and a fresh set of sheets don't automatically add up to a good night's rest. Your mind is still reeling from that nightmare, and it's still trying to make sense of what happened between you and Maria. And it's not just about the fight you had right outside her house. Your mind keeps going back two years ago when she was deployed in Iraq and your Skype conversations were starting to feel more and more like an interrogation. It wasn't just you who felt this way. You and Maria both knew being apart and being a part of demanding jobs had eroded your confidence in your marriage.

Your craving for sleep grows; likewise, the troubling thoughts become more prominent. Finally you resign yourself to a night of watching infomercials and a Twilight Zone marathon (because those are the kind of nightmares you'd rather have). You drift in and out of sleep for the next five hours in moments not long enough for dreams to overstay their welcome.

As promised, you pick up Zara in the morning. Her grandmother chases after her down the hall all the way to the doorstep, tugging on the zipper of her Frozen backpack. She leaps into your arms and presses a wet one on your cheek. Carina places a water bottle and a container of crackers and dried fruit into her backpack while your daughter is contained in your arms. She zips it up and asks if you want to come in first for coffee; but Zara insists that you both start early so you can spend the whole day together. You don't usually spoil your kid (it's important she knows this now that she's still affectionate than when she's going through puberty and claims you're ruining her life); but you heed her request because there's nothing more you want right now than to be with her.

The two of you have breakfast at a mom and pop diner in Georgetown. She orders a stack of pancakes with extra maple syrup and proceeds to cut them up in triangles, naming it breakfast pizza. Her smile from across the booth brightens up your day a thousand times more effectively than your third cup of coffee. As always, she's full of excitement and you feed off her energy, letting it slip from your memory that you've only had a collective two hours of sleep last night. You talk about your plans for the day and offer to take her to the children's museum where they have a giant ball pit and jungle gym to keep any seven-year-old entertained for hours. She scrunches up her face like she's taken a bite out of a lemon and shakes her head, pigtails flying in all directions.

"No, daddy," she says, "let's go to the spy museum again!"

A smile spreads across your face. "That's my girl."

Zara tries her hand at espionage playing spy adventure puzzles at the kids' section. She insists on doing it on her own but when she gets frustrated, she calls for your help and boosts your ego when she proclaims you're the "smartest detective in the whole wide world." When she gets tired of the puzzles and the games, she doesn't mind hearing you talk about the exhibits, the history, and the spy gadgets. You have to keep it G-rated though when you go through the Bond Villains section; but she still appreciates your _Disneyfied_ version, especially when you tell her Bond girls are like princesses who can kick some serious… butt.

Later in the afternoon, you drive to an outdoor rink so she can show you how much she's improved since you last saw her ice-skating. Her lessons at the mall have really helped, and you mentally remind yourself to thank Carina when you drop her off later that evening. Zara takes your hand and you skate around the rink several times. Her smile lights up as she lets go of your hand to twirl, pointing her arms above her head like a ballerina. She sways slightly out of balance when she stops turning, but she quickly regains her footing. After doing a small curtsy, she beams up at you. The paternal pride swelling up your chest is not the kind you want to tamp down. But it's starting to make you feel like a sap so you scoop her up and lift her above your head, crooning _Time of my Life_. She's embarrassed and orders you to stop singing (badly) in between her high-pitched giggles.

"Nobody puts baby in the corner," you say, putting her back down on the ice.

She sticks her tongue out and plants her hands on her hips. "I'm not a baby," she objects, totally missing the _Dirty Dancing_ reference. Before she skates off on her own, she tells you to watch what she can do and she twirls again and this time, sticks the landing perfectly.

* * *

 _{and your voice still rings out through my mind  
_ _and the thorn still twists down my side}_

You make it back to the hotel long enough to remove your coat and shoes before there's a knock on your door. You're not expecting room service, and you don't recall maids requesting to come in at eight in the evening to change the towels and make the bed. Walking over to the door, you peer into the peephole and feel unease in your gut when you see the person standing on the other side. It's Maria.

For most of your day with Zara, you've managed not to think about your soon-to-be ex-wife. The only times she crossed your mind was when you walked up the path to pick up your daughter and drop her off. Turning the knob, you pull the door open slightly. Her lips curl up into a small smile when she sees you.

"Hi," she says, cocking her head to the side to look into the room.

You stand between the open door and the frame. "What are you doing here?"

"We need to talk." Her tone is optimistic and not nearly as ominous as other times when those four words are usually strung together. "Can I come in?"

You look over your shoulder into the room before you step aside to let her through. She goes down the short hall into the small space, looking around and probably contemplating a place to sit before settling on the foot of the bed. You stand against the wall, shoving your hands into your pockets.

"I came to apologize," she says and she lowers her head afraid to meet your eyes. "I'm sorry, Nick."

You exhale. Maria slowly lifts her gaze to meet yours, a flicker of hesitation in her features. You can tell that she's not ready to admit exactly what she's sorry for, but by the look in her eyes you can guess it's got something to do with her fists landing on your chest. Although you have no bruises to show for it, the memory of it is still so vivid in your brain. Normally, your temper would get the best of you and you'd pull her into a back-and-forth argument about how she should have known better than to egg you on like that. But you're just so fucking tired of fighting. And you realize it's taken a lot of humility on her part to come here and be the bigger person.

Pushing yourself off the wall, you sit on the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry, too," you start. "I shouldn't have suggested that you were a bad mother just because you have a career and you're seeing someone. It's none of my business."

She lifts a brow as if she's startled you're not playing offense.

"I can tell that Zara's well taken care of here, and maybe last night was a rare night you weren't home… Anyway, she's doing well here in DC and that's all that matters."

"You were right though. I should be spending more time with her." Maria sighs and shakes her head. "I've been pushing myself at work and trying to keep myself busy so my mind's not idle, you know?" she asks, her eyes pleading for you to understand. Her spine relaxes and she hunches a little as she tucks her hair behind her ear. "When I was in base, the job was there 24/7 and I was on constant alert. But here, everything is just too quiet. Even with all of Zara's energy…" she trails off and looks up at you to smile. You return the smile, knowing what she means. You did just spend an entire day with your daughter and you were pretty much wiped out. "When I'm not absorbed in work and I'm not feeling any pressure, that's when I start to feel anxious. My doctor and my meds are helping, but it's just not enough."

Instinctively, you reach across the bed to take her hand. She squeezes lightly, accepting the comfort and allowing your fingers to completely envelop her hand.

"Nick, I love her so much," she says, her voice breaking. "But sometimes I just feel so numb, so detached. I feel so disconnected from her world and I'm scared she'll see that and think that I don't love her. That's why I leave her with my parents."

"Hey." You lift her chin so she can meet your eyes. "Zara knows you love her. What you're going through doesn't change any of that – not in her eyes and not in mine." Maria's lip quivers like she's about to cry. You hesitate to slide your hand up to cup her face but you curb your impulse, remembering the separation and the ongoing divorce. You drop your hand on top of the duvet and lean back slightly to create some distance. "You know, all day she couldn't stop talking about how happy she is now that you're back home for good."

"Really?"

"Yeah, apparently you let her have more candy than I do," you chuckle softly.

She covers her face with her hands, trying to cover the smile that's fanning across her face.

"M, I've read a few books on PTSD since you left. We've also discussed it in anger management. And by no means am I saying I know what I'm talking about, but I just want you to know that I'm trying my best to understand what you've gone through… what you're still going through." She's looking down and away, but the gentle nods of her head tell you she's hearing what you're saying. You lift your knee up to the bed and turn toward her. "I'm sorry that I couldn't be there for you back then, but I'm here now. Even if we are getting divorced, I'm always here."

It's true. Being apart from your wife for long periods of time, you started to feel an emotional distance that neither one of you wanted to address. Losing that honesty and intimacy in your relationship was not helped in any way by the heinous crimes you were investigating and the implicit psychological deceit that you were witnessing. When Maria returned from the combat zone, you assured her that you were there for her and that you were open to listen to her if she wanted to talk. Truth is, you should have started the conversation and recognized the signs before she marched into the squad room and spelled it out for you. By that time, it was too late to salvage your relationship; but now, at least, you can provide her some comfort and support.

Maria pulls you in for a long embrace and you feel her heartbeat against your chest. When you break away from her hold, you notice she's chewing her lip and lowering her head. She sighs and takes both of your hands in hers, setting them on top of her lap. "I was wrong to hit you last night…" she trails off. "Honestly, I was furious and a little embarrassed that you saw me come home in that state. But it was still no excuse for me to put my hands on you, knowing what your dad –"

"It's fine." You pull a hand out of her grasp to stop her. You turn away to stare at the wall.

She inches closer and grazes her palm on your cheek to get you to look at her. "No it's not."

"Maria, let's drop it."

"You never want to talk about it."

"I've told you," you shoot back a little louder than you intended. She shrinks back a little.

Maria finds your hands again and holds them down on her lap, squeezing gently until she can feel you relax. "Yes, you've told me what he did to you, but you never told me how you felt… how it still gets to you."

You shake your head and scoff.

"Nick." Her voice is pleading. "Look, I'm getting counseling and I'm on medication for my issues. I'm not saying that's the answer for you because I know how stubborn you can be about that sort of thing. All I'm asking is that you try it out, see a therapist and talk to them about what you've been through." Her thumbs stroke the backs of your hands, drawing soothing circles. "I'm worried about you."

"Don't worry about me, ok? I'm fine."

She gives up and nods her head once. Both of you sit there in silence for a few minutes, just holding each other and listening to the sound of the TV from the next room over. You begin to pull your hands away when she grips them tighter. "I ended things with Colin."

Your brows rise slightly. You're not sure how to respond to that, or how she wants you to respond to that. A part of you can admit you were jealous when you witnessed her kissing another man. But after thinking about it on the drive home, you realized that it hurt your ego more than it did your heart. There's a possessive streak in you that you're not particularly proud of, but it's what flared last night and triggered your anger. All you could think of was the fact that she's your wife and you had her first. It was this asinine caveman mentality that came out in full swing, not a deep sense of heartbreak and betrayal.

"It's got nothing to do with us or the divorce," she says quickly but unconvincingly, when she notices that you're not exactly thrilled by the news. "I just realized that Colin was an excuse to keep me away from home and our daughter. Besides, I never felt anything for him as much as I tried… as much as I hoped he would help me move on."

You glance sideways and narrow your eyes. "What are you trying to say?"

"In the last four months that I was seeing him, I never felt anything for him. And I thought it was just, you know, my PTSD acting up and making me feel detached and making it impossible to make that emotional connection," she explains, slowly lifting her head up to look into your eyes. "But then I saw you last night… And I know my head wasn't clear and I know I hurt you, and I know you think I have a really odd way of showing it," she speaks rapidly, trying to catch her breath. "Ever since last night, I realized just how much I've missed you."

"Maria…"

"I know, I know," she cries out, scooting closer and lifting her hands to your face to cup your cheeks. "This is all so confusing and I'm sorry but I haven't been honest with you for a long time and I have to tell you now."

"We're getting divorced."

"I know," she sighs. "We're just not in the same place we used to be when we got married… But do you remember how happy we both were? Remember when we bought the house and it took us over a week to get moved in because we always got… distracted?"

"Yeah," you whisper. Memories of high summer, moving boxes, and a mattress on the floor start materializing in your brain. It's funny, but a lot of people say that once you start thinking about the beginning, it's the end. Going down memory lane with Maria and trying to rekindle a love you lost a long time ago – that's when you know it's really over.

She gives you a sad smile, her green eyes glazed in a coat of tears. "I know things aren't the same anymore, but I miss what we used to have."

"I do too," you admit.

"No one comes close," she whispers. "I don't think anyone ever will."

Maria leans forward and presses her lips to yours and your natural reaction is to kiss back. Her hand strokes the stubble on your cheek as your arms curl around her waist. She deepens the kiss and you part your lips to allow her tongue to slip inside. Her mouth on yours feels warm and familiar, like you're coming home to a place where you feel safe. There's a taste of nostalgia and a touch of comfort in the pressure of her fingertips on the back of your neck, in the way your arms pull her hips toward yours. The kiss is soft and tender but it leaves you panting for air when you break contact.

"We can't," you barely breathe out but her lips slip down to your neck.

She drags her kisses up to your ear, her hot breath tickling the sensitive spot just below your earlobe. "Just one more time." Her tongue and teeth send shivers down your spine, and you feel your pants tighten straight away. "For old time's sake."

It's hard to resist someone who knows you so well and knows how to get you off. It's even harder to resist someone who you once thought of as the love of your life. And although things seemed final last night and although you were starting to accept the reality of your disintegrated marriage, it's hard to cut your losses and completely let go.

You pull her flush against your chest so she's straddling you. Lifting the hem of her top, you pull it over her head in one swift motion. It's been so long since you've seen her in this position, since you've felt her smooth, olive skin under your touch. You know it's against your better judgment to literally kiss your marriage goodbye, because you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that this can only lead to more complications in the future. But she's grinding her hips down on you and latching her mouth onto yours. She pulls your sweater off your body and lifts your left wrist to her lips, lingering over the scar below your palm. Your eyes lock on hers and your hand pushes into her hair; you capture her mouth and flip her onto the bed.

The fire has lit your bones into action, desire running through your veins. Under her touch and under her spell, you feel ready to say goodbye.

* * *

 _{I heard you were back with regrets and you meant it}_

Maria doesn't stay in your bed. After coming down together, you both roll away to the edge, away from each other with your chests heaving. Once her heart rate steadies, she sits up and searches for her discarded clothes. After she slips her shirt back on, she throws you a smile over her shoulder – a silent show of gratitude for this one (last) time between the sheets.

You feel a surge of confidence knowing that you're more than capable of carrying her to those heights. She still reacts to you the same way she did that summer when you were in your twenties. Maria stands up and pulls her pants to her hips, sucking in her already flat stomach to get the button to close. You watch her as she pulls her hair up into a ponytail, the elastic fastened between her teeth. Her eyes shift down to the bedside table, where you've deposited your keys and your wedding band. She pulls her hair through the elastic before she picks up the ring, carefully inspecting the silver for scratches.

"Why'd you come here this weekend?"

You feel exposed and you're not talking about the fact that the only thing covering you at the moment is a rumpled blanket loosely wrapped around your hips. Her eyes pierce into yours with expectation; the ring still clutched between her thumb and index finger.

"Nick, what were you expecting?"

"I just wanted to talk and see if we could make things work," you finally admit. "But after last night, I realized that we're well past the point of fixing things. Like you said, we're not the same people we were when we got married."

"So, that's it?" she asks, her brows knitting in confusion. "You're just giving up?"

You look down and rub the nape of your neck. "I don't know, Maria. I thought this was what you wanted."

"What I wanted?"

"I thought you wanted me to stay away."

She clutches the ring in her hand and draws her knee up on the bed. "I don't know what I want anymore."

You press your fingers on your temples and slide them over your closed eyes. When you look up, her shoulders are slumped and her teeth are biting down on her bottom lip. "I knew this was a bad idea."

"I came here to apologize. Last night, I fucked up," she says barely audible, turning away from your stare. "I wasn't planning on kissing you, I swear… I just got caught up and it was nice feeling a certain way about another person after not feeling anything for so long..."

You nod your head to tell her you understand.

"You should wear your ring if you want to," she says, reaching her hand out to press the ring onto your open palm. "This doesn't mean we're back together, but we can talk to the lawyers and tell them to shelve the divorce proceedings until we figure out if we can make this work. This is what you want, right?"

Your mouth opens but you can't find the words. Luckily, Maria doesn't wait for a response as she withdraws from the bed and bends down to find her boots.

"I know you want to spend time with Zara tomorrow before you head back," she says. Just like that, the conversation goes from serious and life changing to casual and routine. "But if it's all right with you, I'd like to join you for whatever you have planned. I thought it would be good for her to spend some time with both of us."

You prop your head up with your hand and catch her eyes through the reflection on the mirror. "Yeah, of course."

Spending the day together as a family doesn't magically fix your marriage, but you're a step closer because you're finally on the same page as your wife. Your daughter's happiness comes first, and you're both of the same mind when it comes to what deserves the greatest importance. Zara's thrilled to have both you and mommy take her out for breakfast croissants and hot cocoa with marshmallows. People who pass you by on the street assume you're this happy family, and while it may not be the case below the surface, you don't have to try much at all to keep up appearances.

You're close to feeling the way you used to. You're close to having it all within your grasp. So, God answers your prayers and gives you what you want – or at least, close enough to what you want. The church bells should be ringing and celebrating in your head, but instead you find your voice trapped underneath a veil of impenetrable doubt. And you ask yourself the same question Maria asked you. _"This is what you want, right?"_

Maybe. Maybe not. You're no angel, and humans are a fickle creature.

* * *

 _{moving on, letting go, forget the past and give up the ghost}_

The lights are turned off when you step inside your partner's apartment. It's the hour when everyone should be sleeping; but as the perennial tourist slogan goes, this is the city that never sleeps. Feeling the need to relieve some stress, you go for your gym bag to retrieve some clothes. No one's up so you change into a pair of sweats and a black tank right there in the dark living room. You move the couch and coffee table up against the wall, leaving enough physical space for your work out and enough mental space to sort through the mess in your head. Reaching into your duffel, you pull out the rope and face the window.

The longest you've gone skipping rope without stopping was four hours, and that was days after Maria made her announcement that she and Zara were moving to DC. You were losing your head thinking Wilson, Ganzel, or Cassidy were out to get you. Then, you'd come home to an empty nest and feel this tide of loneliness. It would probably rank second in the list of worst moments of your life, just after you shooting a 14-year-old kid.

You do your best thinking when you're not sitting still, and Lord knows you need to sort through this weekend of fights and make-ups, then let it all sink in and process. You want to get rid of all the doubt by skipping rope until the physical exhaustion seeps into the mental turmoil. You're sick and tired of the mixed feelings and the indecision. When did you get so fucking weak?

The rope snaps against the wood, creating a louder sound than your feet, which barely tap the floor before you're in mid-air again.

" _Light on your feet, Nicky," he tells you._

 _You are nine-years-old. He hands you a box to unwrap and inside there's a pair of red boxing gloves. Your mom hates the gift; you can just tell by the look in her eyes. And you probably should see the irony in the situation and hate it too; but you're just a kid excited that your old man is taking the time out of his busy day to teach you how to fight. Teach you how to become a man._

" _You don't have strength; you have speed. Use that to your advantage."_

" _But I want to be strong like you, Papi." Your gloved hands jab harder at the bag he's holding steady. He pulls it away from you and you lose balance. Before you can react, he lets go and grabs your wrists, gripping them tightly with one hand._

" _Get out of my hold."_

 _You try to pull away, using as much upper body strength to wrangle your wrists from the restraints. He tightens his grip and you wince in pain. "I can't."_

" _I can't, I can't," he cries out, mimicking your voice. "You're my son… I didn't raise you to become a loser."_

 _You pull again, now using all your weight to struggle in his hold, swinging his arm at an awkward angle. Eventually, your hands slip out of the gloves and you tumble back toward the ground. As he watches you fall flat on your ass, his laughter is booming and echoing in the old, musty gym. He walks over to you and uses a glove to hit you on the side of the head. "Get up!"_

 _Getting on your feet in less than a second, you stand in front of him with your eyes straight and in level with his chest. He roughly takes you by the chin and lifts it up so he can stare down at you. Turning your chin left and right, he pouts and nods approvingly, then he pats your cheek with a little too much force. "Not bad, mijo,"_

The door clicks open. The rope slows its rotations, your legs getting out of sync with the rhythm you've built up. The door slams shut and light fills the space. One last jump and the rope stops in front of your legs. You turn around to see the confused (and guilty) expression on your partner's face.

"You're back," she says. It's a statement that almost sounds like a question.

"Yeah, I figured with work tomorrow…" you begin, but then shift the subject to her. "I thought you were asleep."

Liv looks around her living room, where you've moved two large pieces of furniture to turn the space into your own personal gym. She furrows her brows then glances up at the clock on the wall. It's two in the morning and neither one of you is where you're supposed to be at this time. Neither one of you is willing to ask the question first.

You wipe the sweat off your brow and ask her a different question. "Cassidy in there," you say, pointing down the hall to their bedroom.

She shakes her head. "He's on another UC assignment. Could take two weeks."

There's a hint of nonchalance in her answer, which makes you suspect that all the private time you left them was all for nothing. Even if you still don't know exactly what's going on with your marriage, at least there was sex followed by a relatively normal family outing. Your weekend was confusing, but it wasn't a waste like theirs.

"You ok with that?"

Liv shrugs and hangs her coat by the door. She's wearing a dress – wine red with long sleeves and a neckline that accentuates assets you often forget your partner has. You're a man though, so it takes a couple of seconds before you peel your eyes away from her. She notices, but she's thoughtful enough not to mention it.

"I take it you weren't just out on a date with your boyfriend on account of him working UC. Again." You stress the last word, and this time she reacts by shooting you a harsh look.

"How was DC? Did you talk to Maria?" She sounds perceptive and maybe a bit spiteful, almost like she knows something you don't.

"It was fine."

"Really?" She doesn't look like she believes you.

"Yeah, Maria and I talked and we agreed to hold off on the divorce. We're figuring things out before we make any final decisions," you say, noting the immediate change in Liv's demeanor. Her brows are creased and her mouth is twisted in a frown. "We actually spent the day together as a family… it was good."

Her expression softens, smiling weakly and giving you an encouraging nod. "I'm happy for you, Nick."

You don't really want to keep talking about your marriage because skipping rope hasn't really done much to make it any less confusing, so you deflect and ask her about her evening. "So, who were you with tonight?"

"Nick." She gives you a look of warning before she walks down the hall. Following her all the way to her doorway, which she leaves open, you stop and look inside the bedroom. She gets out of her heels and starts removing her earrings, placing the small studs in a velvet box. If you play your cards right, maybe she'll tell you who she's been stepping out with.

"I thought you and Cassidy were going to talk."

"You know what happened that night," she sighs. "Judge Dolan killed himself and we got called into Jersey before our orange chicken arrived."

"Yeah, but what about the rest of the weekend?" you challenge back. They had plenty of time to talk, but knowing how evasive your partner has been lately it's no surprise that she avoided that necessary conversation with her boyfriend. You know it's not your place to meddle into other people's relationships, but you can't help but bring it to the fore. You don't want to see this blow back in her face and, frankly, you don't trust Cassidy handling the aftermath sensitively or discreetly. "Liv, if you want to end your relationship and see someone else, you should just tell him."

She turns on her heel and leans against the dresser. Crossing her arms across her chest, she lifts them up protectively and drops them with a sigh. "I care about Brian and I don't want to lose him."

"Great," you say, arms rising before dropping down to your sides. "Then stop sneaking around and cheating—"

"I'm not cheating," she argues back, switching quickly to defensive mode. "I'm not sleeping with anyone else."

"I'm sorry." You bring your hands up to your chest. "Then tell me, what's really going on?"

"Ever since what happened last spring, Brian has been so patient and kind. I know you're going to laugh and agree, but I honestly wasn't expecting him to stick around for me and my –" she pauses, shaking her head with a sad smile. You cock your head to the side and give her a look of encouragement, a look to tell her you're listening. "Nick, I wasn't in a good state this summer. Some days, I still don't feel like myself anymore… And I don't expect anyone from the squad to bend over backwards for me, because you know being treated differently is the last thing that I want. But Brian… he's the one who's stuck by me through all of it, even when I initially fought his support and his sympathy." She catches the look of surprise on your face. "I know, Brian and sympathy – it's hard to believe but it was there when I needed it most. And I guess, I feel like I owe him my life."

"I'll believe it," you say. "You might not have expected him to stay, Liv, but I knew he would. I saw how much he worried about you those days you were missing. We all were, but I think he probably took it the hardest… maybe even felt the most guilt about it." You swallow your own guilt down as memories of your own panic and anger start rushing back into your veins. You look up to see her standing right there in front of you, and you take a second to acknowledge that she's here and she's alive. "Cassidy gets my respect for being there for you and I thank him for helping you through all that. But you shouldn't feel like you owe it to him to stay if your heart is somewhere else."

Olivia crosses one arm over her stomach while her other hand cradles her cheek. "I met someone… actually, I've known him awhile. But it's only recent that we started talking. I've realized that I like talking to someone who doesn't see me as one of Lewis' victims." She notices the crestfallen look on your face and she takes a few steps forward, closing the gap between the two of you. "You don't treat me like that. And Brian doesn't either… It's just different, you know? You were both part of the search. I just didn't know how liberating it would feel to talk to someone who wasn't there to witness the lowest point in my life."

"So, this person doesn't know about Lewis?"

She shakes her head. "He does, actually. But when we talk it's as if none of it ever happened. I feel relaxed... I feel like the person I was before everything that happened."

"Ok, so he's just a friend?" you clarify. "Then why keep it a secret?"

"The first time I met with him, I thought it was just a professional courtesy. But we got talking and we had a great time, then we agreed that we'd be friends. Nothing more."

"All right," you say skeptically. "But how do you feel now?"

She shrinks back and wraps her arms around herself. "I think… No, I know he has feelings for me. He - he tried to kiss me tonight."

Your mouth opens in surprise. "Did you?"

She shakes her head. "I stopped him. Reminded him that I'm seeing someone."

"Ok, but lets say you're not with Cassidy," you start. "How do you feel about this guy?"

"I don't know. I just… I feel good when I'm with him. But in the back of my mind, I'm still thinking of Brian and how much I'm hurting him. And I know I should feel remorse and I know I should stop and tell him I've been lying, but I want to keep it going until –"

"—Liv, are you setting yourself up for Brian to leave you?" you interrupt, cocking your head to the side to study her carefully. You're seeing a self-destructive side to your partner that you've honestly never seen before. She's always been so strong and resilient that it shakes your perception of her to learn that she would plant a bomb in her own relationship just to watch it implode. "You want him to leave you, but you want it to be his choice?"

"No, I don't want him to leave me." Her voice cracks. She tucks her head down, scared to show the vulnerability in her eyes. You hang onto every word because you can sense the truth is going to slip out sometime soon. "Nick, you have no idea how much I wish I could go back to the way things were – the way Brain wants them to be. My feelings for him have never changed; in fact, they've only gotten stronger. But the truth is, other things in my life have taken priority since Lewis. And I know, without even asking him, that he doesn't fit into what I want for the next stage of my life."

You tilt your head and narrow your eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Nick, I want a family."

* * *

 _{all we are is fading stars, life's too short to stay where we are}_

The NYPD Promotions Ceremony is held every year at One Police Plaza; and this year, you're one newly appointed sergeant's less-than-honored guest. You're sitting in the banquet hall with Fin, saving a seat for Rollins who hasn't arrived yet. Fortunately, these things never start right on schedule so even though she's technically late by eight minutes, she makes it inside the hall just in time before the ceremony begins.

She hunches down and tells you to scoot over to the middle seat you've saved for her, just as the mayor and police commissioner approach the stage. You have to remind yourself to keep a civil tongue considering all your superiors are within earshot. The last thing you need is your boss and your boss' boss hearing about how you're some self-absorbed asshole.

Amanda's still sporting the dark frames and holding the requisite tumbler of coffee. Leaning over you, she nudges Fin on the arm and pulls the sunglasses on top of her head. "I miss anything?"

"Nah, just me and Amaro killin' time. How long is this thing gonna be?" He turns to you.

You open the program they were handing out at the door and scan the four columns of names and all the speakers scheduled to make an address. "Probably all morning."

Amanda huffs before she takes a long sip of her drink, practically inhaling it. She licks her lips and leans forward, resting her elbows on her thighs. She then looks around the room that's already filled up to capacity. The chatter dies down just as someone steps up to check on the microphone.

"Jumping around so much," Fin comments. He looks down at the silver tumbler in her hand. "How much caffeine you got in there?"

She throws him a mischievous smile. "Sorry." Amanda turns from Fin and looks in your direction, reaching for the program. "You mind?"

"No," you say, handing her the booklet. Her eyes linger at your hands for a second and then she looks up to meet your eyes.

"So how was DC? You and Maria?"

You blink back at her and see that the question has also piqued Fin's interest. He cranes his neck to look at you, ignoring the fact that the police commissioner is up there talking about honor and duty and other buzzwords that have lost their meaning to many people in that hall. Amanda gestures to the silver ring wrapped around your finger. Blindly tossing the program onto her partner's lap, she leans in closer and cocks her head to the side, awaiting an answer.

"One day at a time," you say vaguely. She twists her mouth in response and shrugs a shoulder. "You know the drill," you add and instantly regret saying it because it sounds stupid. Of course, she doesn't know 'the drill'; she's never been married.

"Dude, that's awesome," she says, her voice sounding more enthusiastic than usual. She punches you lightly on the arm before she turns her attention back on the stage.

"Dude?" Fin furrows his brows and looks at you with suspicion.

You shrug your shoulders in response. You can sense something's up with her because she's never usually this chipper, especially when it concerns you. And no way would she be saying 'awesome' about the fact that you went down to see your wife over the weekend. But then again, Amanda doesn't really brood about arguments and disagreements like you do, so she's probably gotten over the fight. Maybe you're just too much of a smug bastard to assume she thinks so importantly of you.

You direct your attention back on the stage and listen to the commissioner's speech, even though it's the same drivel you've heard a million times before. At least, it keeps you distracted from all the fidgeting that's happening to your left. She's not usually this restless, and you think it's more than just caffeine that's got her all keyed up. She smells good, but only because she's doused herself in sweet perfume to mask the scent of cigarettes that's lingered on her clothes.

They're calling out the names of recently promoted sergeants when your phone chimes. It's a missing girl from the Upper West Side; parents found the place ransacked and based upon the blood they found on their sheets, they think their daughter was assaulted. Amanda and Fin offer to take the case so you can stay and watch Liv march across the stage.

Just as they're leaving, her name is called. Liv's got a bright smile on her face as she salutes the mayor and the commissioner and accepts her new badge. Hundreds of people are clapping for her, but she catches your eye and her smile lights up even more. You lean back on your chair as you look proudly on. You know it's only been less than three years since you were assigned as her new partner – a little rocky in the beginning but your partnership and friendship has grown so much since then. Your mind drifts back to your conversation last night, about her wanting a family, and you still stand by what you said. She's going to make a good sergeant, and an even better mother.

Not to say that she's up there getting promoted because of all the shit she's been through, but it does make this victorious moment all the more sweeter. Spring is behind her; the trial is behind her. Nothing ever really stays quiet in SVU, but things are starting to look up (for all of you) and you feel as if life is going back on track.

As you watch her march off stage and they call down another name, you start picturing your future again. Ambition has always been in your blood. You've always been striving to get better and climb higher up the ranks. But honestly, with the department hanging you out to dry and making you the scapegoat for a systemic problem – training to shoot and ask questions later – you've felt forsaken.

Until today.

You don't know if you should chalk it up to all this talk about honor and duty. The speakers on stage are also throwing the word 'brotherhood' around, so now you're feeling like you're part of something bigger than yourself. Or maybe you're just so fucking sleep-deprived that you'll fall for the propaganda. Whatever the case, this promotions ceremony restores some faith and makes you feel a little less jaded. You're actually starting to imagine yourself moving up and being in a position in the department where you can spur some necessary changes. You're probably not going to become this activist cop who challenges the culture of police brutality from within. Call yourself a coward, but you'd actually like to keep your job (but you're not going to shy away if someone wants to pass around a petition). You want what seems feasible; you want to lead someday and you want to do it by example. When you started this job you were taught to value integrity in conduct, you were taught to commit to protecting civilians above all else.

A lot of people donning the uniform have lost sight of that in favor of instilling fear. But you're hungry for a career that gives you more than the satisfaction of putting the bad guys away. You don't just graduate the academy to assert your dominance and scare people straight. The more you think about it, the more you feel motivated to be up on that stage and to have that influence, not out of a desire for power but a desire to make a difference. Yeah, it sounds trite and idealistic. But something about this train of thought reminds you of those good old days when you were running down your neighborhood, playing cops and robbers. You naturally associated cops with the good guys. It's tragic seeing how perceptions have changed – or rather, how they've been spearheaded into public consciousness.

You're not really sure what role you play in all of this, but you're tired of being their gunman, their scapegoat, their puppet, and their bystander.

It's time you push ahead. It's time you push back.


	9. Rabbit Hole

**AN:** _Hello! I want to make this quick because I'm eager to post this chapter. Thank you to everyone who left reviews for chapter eight, even if you were upset with me for the "for old time's sake" bit. Sorry! I just want to confuse Nick about the state of his marriage (on top of all the shit he's going through). Tragic characters are so much fun to play with :D Chapter title and {lyrics} is from Rabbit Hole by The Temper Trap._

 _To the guest reviewer who asked if anyone else is in pain seeing S17 promos, I feel you. *wipes single tear from eye*_

 _Please read, enjoy, and review._

* * *

 **Ruined Beyond Redemption**

 **9\. Rabbit Hole**

* * *

 _{I don't wanna be the only one 'round here_  
 _everything I'm saying's falling on deaf ears}_

"You're telling me that you feel powerless?"

"Ok… Not that word by definition," you say, your inward voice cringing at the suggestion that you are weak and incapable. "I guess I feel frustrated because I want to do something – anything – to change how things are run, how they train us, how we all have to follow procedure that has failed time and time again."

Father Biobaku turns his head to look at you. "Are you saying you want to reform police culture?"

Your laugh echoes in the cavernous church. It does sound pretty fucking ridiculous when your priest phrases it into a question and throws it back at you. He's not laughing with you, though; he actually appears reflective as he waits for your answer.

"I – I – That's not going to happen," you admit and you note that his expression switches to disappointed with your response. "Do I want things to change at that level and restore public confidence in law enforcement? Yes. Do I think it's ever going to happen in my lifetime? No."

"Why not?" he asks simply.

"Because we're trained and programmed to be routinely suspicious and to be aggressive in the face of any perceived threat. It's 'kill first and ask questions later'; and I know I'm the classic example of how messed up it is, so it's probably best I keep my mouth shut –"

"—I think it is important that you talk about it. There are plenty of police officers across this country who have been in a similar situation, whether it was an unfortunate case of observing protocol or simply a glaring abuse of power. But most have failed to address the underlying source of all this fear and brutality. It would be a shame to see you give up before you've even begun."

 _That's nice_ , you want to tell him. How great would it be if you could broadcast your opinions to police departments across America and challenge for reform, without risking your badge. It all boils down to self-preservation. Call it pride and arrogance, but you're not risking your career to become a full-time activist. You have responsibilities; you have _two_ families to support on a job that pays just enough with hardly any room for the luxuries.

"I wouldn't say I'm giving up." What it sounds like, though, is you deemphasizing the fact that you're chickening out, because you don't want him to think you're indifferent to excessive violence aimed at people of color. You _do_ care. You _are_ pissed off. Swallowing hard, you cast a glance in his direction. "What I want is to be in a position where I can lead and train officers into being more conscientious and discerning when it comes to adhering to protocol. I've learned – and I'm _still_ learning – from my mistakes and all I'm focused on right now is making sure no one else repeats it and lives to regret it."

Father Biobaku nods his head. "I think that's a good start. But I'm also under the impression that you do not give yourself enough credit," he pauses and tilts his chin to gaze at the altar. "I understand you want to lead by example and teach good habits, but do you envision yourself guiding them toward the path of decency and kindness?"

Maybe Liv and Maria are right. Maybe it's time you talk it out with a shrink. Not that Father Biobaku hasn't helped you, because he's spoken wise words about controlling your pride and alleviating some of your guilt; but you probably need someone with a degree in head shrinking for this one. You probably need a professional to take a sledgehammer to your starry-eyed pipe dream and drag you back down to planet earth. You don't need someone getting you hyped up for something that's never going to happen.

"No one's going to take me seriously standing from a moral high ground when I've shot and crippled a kid."

He slowly shakes his head. "Have you experienced resentment from the community since the shooting?"

"Someone tagged my stoop and called me the KKK," you say, pursing your lips and shrugging. "Besides that, just a few random people who recognized me from the papers and said I should've been indicted and sent to Riker's." Your fingers intertwine as you hunch forward, keeping your eyes fixed on the salt stains on your shoes. "There was a kid I confronted today… you know, for a case. Wilfredo – he's a truant I met during my Narcotics days. He came from a rough family, his dad was a piece of work and his mom was hopped up on crack. For a while, I took him under my wing and tried to get him to stay out of trouble; but I realized there was only so much I could do to help him…. This morning, my partner and I were trying to locate another gang member and when he saw me told me, 'Don't shoot. I'm not 14.'"

"How did that make you feel?"

"Nothing. At the time, I told him to keep his mouth shut."

"But now?" Father Biobaku asks; he leaves the question hanging in the air because he senses there's a reason why you brought it up. You wouldn't just mention it if it didn't have significance. You, then, realize your priest is actually more perceptive than you give him credit for. "What's going through your mind?"

"It's always going to be a part of me. Shooting Yusef and paralyzing him from the waist down is always going to be in my head, and I've accepted that there's nothing I can do to change that. There's nothing I can do to fix it." You exhale from deep in your chest as you finally say it out loud. There's something both terrifying and comforting about admitting your powerlessness, your humanity. "But it's also going to affect how people perceive me for the rest of my life. Even people I've known for years, people I've tried to help – to them, I'm the one who pulled the trigger and paralyzed a child. And I know it sounds like this is about my pride and my reputation…. But I just keep wondering if this one error is going to hold me back from accomplishing what I set out to do. I keep asking myself if it's worth the fight if everyone's just going to use the shooting to invalidate my form of making amends."

"Who is 'everyone'?" he asks, placing emphasis on the last word. "You are begging pardon, not from the rest of the world, but from God and the young man whose life you changed. Do not carry the weight of everyone's judgment on your shoulders or you will never have the strength to forgive yourself. And if you don't forgive, Nick, you cannot move forward."

Propping your elbows on your thighs, you cradle your heavy head in your hands. As much as you try to convince yourself to accept the things you can't change, the well-rehearsed and often rewritten apology to Yusef and his family still needs to be spoken. It's what you've been trying to write in your anger management journal for the last few days, hoping that would help you 'move forward' as Father would say. You just want the Barres to know how deeply you've regretted what you've done and how you'd do just about anything to repair the damage you've caused. Along with that, you don't want to be saddled with regret for the things you never did, too.

"We all sin. We all make mistakes," he starts, hands folding together as if he's in prayer. "We all face consequences. For some people, they have to live with the consequences of their actions but they don't always have to let it take root in their hearts. Just because you have done something wrong in the past does not make you a corrupt and deceitful person. Let those with weak minds think that perception is what matters, but God knows and _you_ know that character is what truly has value."

* * *

 _{hands up if you think you're gonna save us now_  
 _before we shoot the messenger for talking too loud}_

"You worried about me? Walk away," Manny Montero tells his pleading girlfriend. You exchange a fleeting look with Amanda, who's standing behind Avery Capshaw. The young girl's back tightens and her mouth drops open to begin to protest. But Manny hasn't finished. "Tell them nothing happened you didn't want."

Her lips quiver. "You know that's not true." The first sob arrives as she leans forward, urging him to listen and stand in her corner. "I can't do this alone. You have to tell the jury how they burst in, held me down, and forced me. That I didn't want it. Any of it," she begs, her eyes blurry from the tears clouding her eyes. "Please."

Manny maintains a stiff upper lip. He can barely even maintain eye contact, his hands clasped together. He releases his hold and drops his shoulders. "I'm sorry."

On your way back to the car, Avery breaks down and becomes inconsolable. Amanda tries to hold her up and sit her down on a nearby bench. She's trying her best to empathize with her especially now that the girl feels alone, afraid, and _disgusting_.

"What they did was wrong, but you are not disgusting," Amanda tells her, but the teenager shakes her head refusing to believe it. "You had no consenting part in any of it. And I know it must feel horrible to go through such a traumatic event, but recovery is possible. I'll help you. Your parents will help you. You're not alone in this, Avery."

You tell Amanda that you're going to pull the car up front so neither one of them have to walk too far, giving your partner more time to console her. Avery's boyfriend has just betrayed her by refusing to testify against the three men who raped her. It's awful; there's really no other way to describe the situation.

But, at the same time, you know there's more to this story than Manny's letting on.

He may have denied it in that room when Avery was pleading for him to submit his testimony, but you could see that he genuinely cared for her. Truth be told, you're disappointed. A kid like Manny, who's from the projects and whose only living relative is his _abuelita_ , getting into one of the top public schools in the city – you see so much potential in him. This is the kind of thing you witnessed during your Narcotics days - young men dropping out of school to become street corner pawn for the true menaces of society. The prevalence of the situation has never made it easy to swallow. At any rate, you don't intend to get used to it.

A part of you doesn't want to give up on the kid, because you do see a little of yourself in him. You never joined a gang in your life, but you were exposed to it growing up. It seemed to be the natural trajectory for the kids in your neighborhood. And when you were 15 and your Papi walked out, they came at you worse than college football recruiters – worse than vultures, even. But you were lucky to have people in your life that kept your head on straight, so it was no challenge resisting the temptation of easy money and a false sense of brotherhood.

Manny's been dealt an even rougher hand though. He's made some bad choices, but he's not like the other three pieces of shit you have on lock-up. You recall your earlier conversation with Father Biobaku. He spoke about character and how a person can't let their mistakes shake their integrity and define who they are. You've only known Manny for a few days now, but after speaking with him and his _abuelita_ , you know the kid is neither a drug peddler nor a rapist. But, then again, after abandoning the girl he claims to love, you're starting to realize that Manny may just be another lost cause to add to your list.

You pull up to the front of the building and see Amanda with her arm draped over Avery's shoulder. She's stopped crying. Guiding her into the backseat, she squeezes her hand before letting go and closing the door. You look over your shoulder and Avery's looking out the window and chewing her bottom lip. Amanda sits shotgun as you drive back to Manhattan in silence.

After dropping Avery off at her house on the Upper West Side, you head back to the precinct to work on your next angle. Amanda sits quietly, staring out the window just like Avery did earlier. While neither one of you have been at each other's throats for a week now, the mood remains frigid.

She reaches over to the center console to turn up the heat. Rubbing her sleeves, she releases a cold puff of air before she reverts her attention back to the slow-moving traffic outside.

"You did well with Avery," you say, cutting through the silence.

Amanda turns her head to look at you. From the corner of your eye, you see her mouth curling up into a faint smile. It's not much. You know it doesn't heal the cuts from the spiteful words you fired at each other; still, it's the bare minimum like placing a band-aid over a gaping wound. It counts for something. At least, you hope it does.

* * *

 _{every which way you go they're gonna hunt you down_  
 _making you believe a lot of sticks and bricks can get you stoned}_

"Ma, I'm home."

Her head peeks out from the kitchen and her smile radiates across the room. She wipes her hands on a tea towel and meets you halfway through the living room, so you can press a kiss on her cheek. Before you can pull away, she straightens the collar of your shirt.

"Ma, come on," you grumble, and she gives you another smile to humor you. And although you just got here, you have important matters to discuss. She senses it straight away and eyes you with suspicion. "The girls at the parlor still giving you a hard time?"

Her shoulders lift only to slump back down; she shakes her head. Ever since the shooting, the women at her regular beauty parlor started treating Cesaria like she was the one who pulled the trigger on Yusef. It's upsetting and you wish there was more you could do, but she assured you that it would all blow over eventually. "I haven't been back since it happened," she says, referring to a particularly harrowing visit when she was getting her hair colored and a few of the beauticians were passive aggressively talking about how 'that cop who shot that boy wasn't raised right by his mother'; all the while knowing exactly who she was. Your mom looks at you, a smile on her face. "And I don't ever plan on going back."

You drape your arm over her shoulder and squeeze it gently. "Hey, I promised you I wasn't going to miss dinner this time."

She arches a brow and gives you a look, like you shouldn't be so proud of yourself for meeting your mom for a meal once a week. When you get to the dining room and see the spread, you're cheesing from ear to ear because she's prepared, rice, beans, pork asado and shrimp mofongo. She'll have leftovers for days.

You didn't realize how much you missed it until the aroma of Cuban cuisine wafted under your nose. With everything that's happened since the shooting, it's been a while since you last sat down and had your mother's home cooked meals. It was either takeout or Liv's leftovers of unseasoned chicken breast. She read an article about the long-term benefits of cutting down salt intake, and you argued that you wouldn't give a shit about living to a hundred if you had to eat bland food for the rest of your life. Annoyed, Liv instructed you to cook your own damn chicken.

Coming into dinner, you knew that you were walking into a line of questioning about your somewhat spontaneous trip to DC. Your mom asks you what happened and you tell her everything, except the part where you got into a heated argument with Maria and then slept with her the following night. She's not as thrilled as you expect when you tell her that you and Maria have agreed to press pause on the divorce proceedings, just in case you two can rekindle the spark – or, _you know_ , just get along without a fight for 24 hours.

Cesaria shakes her head, setting her utensils down on the plate. "Nicky, are you doing this for yourself?"

"What – I'm doing this for Zara. I'm doing this for our family."

"It's been so long since I've last seen you happy with Maria. Even before you transferred to your new unit, you two were already having problems." She's one to talk about marital problems considering she stayed with your Papi for so much worse. You bite your tongue because you know it's not fair to bring it up. She stares pointedly at you, her fingers intertwining over the table. "You don't have to stay in an unhappy marriage to be a family. Zara's still your daughter, just as much as Gilberto is your son. You're going to put her through more pain and confusion if you stay with her mother and fight all the time. You'll teach her everything that's wrong about love."

"I still care about Maria."

"But you're not _in love_ with her," she insists. "You're scared of being alone and having no one to cling to. But you have me, _hijo_. You'll always have me." She reaches across the table to squeeze your hand.

"Maybe we can get it back…. It's not too late," you sigh, placing your free hand over your lips. "Marriage takes work and we both knew that when we signed up for it. We just have to try harder, communicate better – all the things we failed to do when she returned from her last tour. We'll figure this out and everything will go back to normal –"

"—Normal?" she asks, her eyes narrowing into slits. "Nicky, you can spend all your time and energy into figuring this out and trying to fix it as you always do; but is 'normal' really what you want to get out of this? You can try to put the pieces of your marriage back together and continue to be miserable, or you can just leave it and move on."

"I thought you would be happy for us."

She pulls her hand back in front of her and twists her mouth into a frown. "I know, back then, I didn't like the idea of you and Maria getting divorced; but I've since learned to accept it. I think you and Maria are better off apart and co-parenting your daughter. Being around Maria, I can see that you are more stressed… I can see that you are angry –"

"—Oh, and you think I'm going to take my anger out on her, huh? Just like Papi?" Your voice bounces off the walls, where memories of your childhood are obscured by forgetful wallpaper. Leaning forward, you whisper, "I'm not like him. I'd never lay a hand on Maria."

Cesaria lowers her head as she presses the napkin to her lips. Throwing it down on the table, she starts to get up and clear her plate. "What your father and I had – that was different."

"Yeah, it was different!" Your eyes are wild in agreement, but not in the way she had implied. "But you still stayed with him, right? You both still tried to make it work even when he was..." You stop yourself. Her mouth quivers, but her eyes remain steel-like in their glare. It's not fair that he still has her so terrified that she can't fully acknowledge what it was like to share a roof with that monster. It's not fair that you can't heal from this as a family because everyone else who has witnessed it has denied and distorted the truth. It's not fair that he still plays head of the household even when he's thousands of miles away. "Wasn't it one of Papi's mistresses and a pregnancy scare that made you kick him out of the house and file for divorce… after what – five, ten other women?"

She clenches her jaw and gives you a hard look. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Please. I'm almost forty and you still can't admit that's the real reason you left his sorry ass. What are you so worried about? That it'll tarnish his _immaculate_ reputation, that it'll break my heart to learn that my father was unfaithful on top of beating his wife and his kid? Don't you think Sonya's old enough by now to hear the truth about Papi?"

She points a finger at you; her eyes are threatening. _"_ _¡Cállate!"_

It's not often that you ever get to see your mother this riled up. She's always been the type of person to bottle it all up and stow it away. That was part of the reason why your father had gotten away with it for so many years, because he knew she'd never report him. You hold your hands up to call a truce. _"Lo siento, mami,"_ you apologize, the pounding in your chest slowing down to a normal rhythm. You remind yourself that you're not just on her side; you're the one standing in the front line ready to defend her.

Cesaria's expression softens as she moves behind your chair and wraps her arms around your shoulders. Her cheek presses up against yours. _"Yo tambien lo siento."_

The least you can do after being so testy is offer to do the dishes, and insist she sit on the couch and catch up on her _telenovela_. She's stubborn at first but she eventually concedes, reminding you to scrape all the food and rinse before lining the plates neatly in the dishwasher. When you're done with the self-discipline, you join your mom on the couch and see if you can follow the muddled mess of her favorite nightly drama.

One of the doctors on the show falls down an elevator shaft and the screen turns to black. Your mother looks unaffected by the 'unexpected' death, muttering in Spanish about how she doesn't care either way for the character. When the commercial airs, she turns to you. "Are you still staying at your partner's apartment?"

You nod your head. Technically, you should have been able to move back to your house the day you left for DC. But with the weekend away and the Capshaw case all coming one right after the other, you've barely had a second to recoup. This dinner with your mom has been the one brief moment you've allowed yourself to breathe. Then, there's the whole other matter of Liv reluctantly telling you you're welcome to stay until Cassidy returns from his assignment. She gives you the option, but it's pretty clear she doesn't want to be alone. You get the impression that if she's not going to be at her apartment watching house hunting and home improvement shows with you, she's going to be out with other company – the kind she's been trying to avoid since you two had that talk about family.

"Do you remember your tía Tessie?"

The one with the tacky leopard print outfits and the fake nails shaped like talons, you want to ask her. Or the blood relative from four generations back who thinks you got your cheekbones from her side of the family. But instead you go for something a little more polite. "Yeah, I remember. She's the one who sings, right?"

"Sí. This past Sunday, she invited me and the girls to this jazz lounge to watch her perform. And while we were there, I saw Olivia."

You cock your head to the side, your eyes wide in expectation. "She didn't mention running into you…."

"No, no," she says, shaking her head. "We were close to the stage and she was all the way over at the bar. I wanted to stop by and say hello, but she looked like she was deep in conversation with this older gentleman." A mischievous smile spreads across Cesaria's face, her shoulders lifting up to her ears in giddiness for your partner's dating life. Granted, your mother has no idea that your partner _already_ has a boyfriend.

"When you say older, how much older?"

She shrugs. "Hmmm… Now that I think about it, maybe he's not that much older."

You groan as you drop your shoulders. There's a reason why you're the detective in the family. "What did he look like? Was he wearing a uniform?"

"He's white, probably in his late fifties, wearing a suit and tie," she trails off, looking past you to remember what else she observed that night. "He was showing her something on his phone and she was smiling. She looked so happy, so radiant. And I think he noticed because he was staring at her all night."

"Really, and what else –" Your question is interrupted by the ringing of your cell phone. Excusing yourself, you get off the couch to answer the call. Speak of the devil; it's Liv and she's telling you that on the way to their house upstate, the Capshaws were attacked by BX9. Sighing, you end the call and turn to your mother and you can see from the downcast look on her face that she knows work is pulling you away again. But she nods understandingly, and you walk over to the couch to kiss her cheek. "We're not done talking about this."

She rolls her eyes with a smile. "Nicky - always so nosy! Why don't you just go ask your partner?"

* * *

 _{just feeding the flame_  
 _arresting the fight_  
 _with fire, with fire_  
 _in the rabbit hole}_

The same gang that murdered his brother murdered Manny Montero.

It makes you sick to your stomach to see another kid's poor decisions lead to something so tragic. By no account was Manny a saint. He knew BX9 was coming to the Capshaws to rob the house and rape his girlfriend. The kid froze and didn't do anything to stop them. But he didn't want it to happen; he just felt like it was something beyond his control. It's not like you're trying to make excuses for his actions - that's not what's going through your mind. What you're grieving is Manny's wasted potential that's circling down the drain. What you feel sorry for is his damaged character that can't even be reclaimed by an inadmissible recording of his confession. And you ache for his _abuelita_ , because nothing is going to bring back her grandsons.

You're at a cop bar a block from the precinct. Fin is sitting across the booth, nursing his second beer in his hands. You just got the call from Liv and Barba with an update – Carlos Hernandez, or OG as he's more popularly known, is going to do his bid up in Rikers. A part of you is relieved that Avery won't have to suffer through a trial. But there's also a part of you that strongly believes it's a miscarriage of justice for someone like OG to walk away from this with a plea deal that'll keep him behind bars for a scant five years. Or less if he passes for good behavior. Even with your respect for the law, there are circumstances when you just want to say 'fuck it' and take matters into your own hands.

Your fist coils around the amber bottle until your knuckles turn white. This is your first drop of alcohol since those two glasses of wine at Liv's apartment. Lifting it to your lips, you take a few gulps before setting the bottle on the table. If you happen to stumble upon a crime scene or get in the middle of a hot pursuit, you remind yourself to hold off, call for back up, and sit on your goddamn hands.

Fin looks past you and tilts his chin up, signaling the arrival of your company. Liv walks in followed by Barba, whose eyes dart around the bar like he's afraid of coming into contact with inferiority.

Sliding beside Fin, Liv raises her brow and asks, "Where's Rollins?"

Perhaps you're not the only one who's playing armchair investigator when it comes to the question of Rollins' whereabouts and extracurricular activities. But Fin squashes those sneaking suspicions with a casual response. "She told me she was going to check up on Avery."

 _Ah, a valid reason._

Liv nods, accepting it and moving on. She rests her chin on her hands and sighs. Barba, who's still standing by the table, watches her with eyes full of concern. You don't miss the brief look they exchange. Barba can't be Liv's mystery man, can he? Your mom said the man she was with at the jazz lounge looked much older than her, so there's no way it could've been the ADA. You tilt your head and furrow your brow at Liv's direction, but she dismisses you with narrowed eyes. "What would you like to drink?" Barba asks your partner, "It's on me."

"You buying me a drink too, Counselor?" Fin quips, turning up his mouth into a smirk.

Barba cocks his head to the side and stares at Fin for a long second, before he reverts back to Liv. You study their interaction. There's definitely something between them they're not telling the rest of the table. You try to read between the lines but whatever you're picking up doesn't seem romantic or affectionate at all. Besides, Liv said she was talking about family with her mystery guy; and as far as you know, Barba doesn't have any children or any interest in them. Even when you're working a case that involves kids.

"Whatever you're having," she says casually, smiling weakly at Barba. He walks off to the bar, narrowly dodging a rowdy man who's in the middle of hollering and fist pumping for the Patriots. Everyone else fixes deathly glares at the man, who's evidently not a native New Yorker.

"Hey."

You look up from the condensation circle you've been tracing with your finger to see Amanda standing by your side of the booth She looks at the empty space and hesitates before sliding next to you. Your head bows down as her hand brushes unexpectedly against your thigh; she quickly pulls it away, her gaze flickering to meet yours before they're back to ice.

Barba is the first to leave. He stays for one glass of top-shelf scotch, which still displeases him, and a rundown of the entire case before he excuses himself and calls it a night. After a few more beers and some shoptalk, Liv receives a call and promises she'll return shortly. While she's away, Amanda convinces Fin there's a female detective from the gang unit who's been making eyes at him all night. She brings up her own brand of logic to make her argument, "I'm a woman. I can tell when another woman is checking a guy out."

He pouts and casts a dubious look in the other woman's direction. "I'm going to test that theory."

Less than a minute later, Fin has his hand on the small of her back and he's escorting her toward the bar so he can buy her a drink. This leaves you alone in the booth with Amanda. You're running through a mental list of pleasantries to talk about, but you decide it's probably safest for your ego to settle back into the stillness. But you do cast a sideways glance every now and then to see her deep in thought, her brows knitting in confusion and her mouth turned downwards. It feels like an hour, but the silence only really lasts for one song.

She polishes off the rest of her beer and wipes her lips with the back of her hand. Craning her neck, she groans when she sees the boisterous crowd waiting for their drinks at the bar. "Why do we always go here? This place is the worst."

You chuckle softly because the hyperbole is actually justified in this situation. "I don't know. History? Tradition? Laziness? Apparently this has been the cop bar of the squad for the last twenty years – even before Liv and Fin were working SVU."

"We should start a new tradition," she says, propping her elbows on the table. Her knee bumps against yours, but she doesn't pull away this time. "We should find a new place for the squad to take it easy and get drunk. Preferably a bar with cheap liquor and - Oh! One that plays country –"

"—No!" You shake your head vigorously.

Her eyes glimmer in mischief. "I know a place on West 51st and they have a live band on Fridays and – guess what - they've also got a mechanical bull! We should totally go there some time," she says with excitement. You arch a brow, and she bites into her bottom lip. "- With the whole squad," she clarifies in barely a whisper.

"You'd have to get me piss-drunk if you want to see me on a mechanical bull."

"I bet I can last longer than you," she fires back quicker than it takes her to process. When she catches the euphemism in her response, you both burst out laughing.

Conversation between you and Amanda flows smoothly. You banter back and forth as if you weren't in some self-imposed deep freeze for the last week and a half. During Lewis' trial, it _was_ alcohol that brought you closer. In spite of the anointed label, 'drunk cop', you can't deny the social perks of getting hammered and getting out of your own head. It's easier to forget. It's easier to be courageous.

Briefly, as she's giving you a lesson on country music 101, her tongue traces over her lower lip. You break away from staring at her mouth, because it's fetching memories of that night on your stoop. Instead, you fix your eyes on the scene at the far end of the room. Fin is hovering over the gang unit detective; she's got a pool cue in her hands, and his right palm is on her hip as he's whispering something in her ear. She shoots; she scores.

Amanda shakes her head with a smile. "Well, someone's getting laid tonight."

She picks up her empty bottle and clinks her beer to yours.

"Where did Liv go?" you ask, checking your watch. It's been over an hour since she left to take a call.

Amanda furrows her brows and crinkles her nose. "I'm pretty sure she already left through the back door."

Sighing, you finish off the rest of your beer. It _is_ Friday night so it makes sense for mystery man to hit her up. You just didn't think Liv would give in so easily after avoiding him since Monday. You've kept her company all week but there's only so much you can do, considering Liv's a grown woman and she can make her own choices. She's entitled to her own secrets. And even though the information you collected from your mom piques your curiosity, you're still not going to yield to the (stronger) temptation of finding out mystery man's identity. No, that's way too predictable.

You're about to turn sideways to ask Amanda about the differences between bluegrass and country when you notice the somber expression on her face. "Something on your mind?"

She blinks, breaking out from her trance.

"It's cool. We don't have to talk about it," you tell her hastily. "Do you want another drink? I can get us another –"

Amanda places her hand on your arm to stop you. "It's fine," she says, taking a glimpse at you from underneath her bangs. "It's just," she pauses and looks down at her hands resting on the table. "When I checked up on Avery before arriving here, she was telling me how she'd never have the kind of love she had with Manny. I wasn't really sure how to respond to that, so you know what I said? I told her she's young, and I know it seems like she'll never have it again but there's plenty of guys out there and she's got plenty of time to fall in love again."

You nod in agreement. It seems like rational advice to give a young girl who feels legitimately hopeless because of the death of her first love. While the situations are completely different, you recall when you were a teenager and you thought you were going to marry and start a family with your high school sweetheart. When she broke things off your junior year, just weeks before homecoming, you were so convinced you'd never love again that you actually pondered joining the seminary.

It's hard to imagine moving on from your first heartbreak, but it _is_ possible.

"Then, you know what Avery said? She asked me if I've ever been with someone who was willing to die to protect me." Amanda leans toward you, the side of her leg pressing up against yours. "Would you be willing to die to protect someone?"

Maybe it's because you've knocked back quite a few tonight on an empty stomach, but you don't take the question as seriously as you probably should. You laugh it off, sweeping the topic aside. Can't you two just go back to talking about how she's going to convert your nonbelieving ass into a country music fan? She nudges your leg, waiting for an answer.

"I've been told I have – get this – hero syndrome. It sounds sweet… made me feel like a superhero when I first heard it…. I had to take a mandatory psych eval years ago to qualify for this undercover assignment. The results came back and it said that I'm willing to run to the line of fire more often and more readily than most cops. But I'm also prone to creating critical situations, which I then attempt to resolve. Basically, I fuck up and then I desperately try to fix it so I can prove that I'm not a fuckup."

"Amazing," Amanda responds, her body leaning closer to yours. "So you'll create a situation just so you can prove that you're willing to die for someone?"

"Hasn't happened quite yet," you tell her, a trace of humor in your voice. "But to answer your question, I guess you could say I wouldn't have to be with someone to die for them. I've got a death wish regardless."

"That's the dumbest, and yet, most badass thing you've ever said, Amaro."

"Thank you." Crossing your arms on the table, you glance sideways and playfully smirk. "What about you? You ever been with anyone who said they were willing to die to protect you? I bet whoever they are - they enjoyed hearing the 'Amanda Rollins can protect herself' speech."

Your comment was supposed to be light-hearted, but then you immediately regret it when her smile falters.

"I told her 'no'. I've never had anyone…" she stops herself, eyes wide in surprise, then she shakes her head and brushes it off. She scoots away so her leg is no longer pressed up against yours; the booth feeling less cozy than it did a second ago. You know your face probably looks like ten different shades of apologetic, because she throws you a forced smile. "It's cool. Let's forget about it."

Another song plays from start to finish; meanwhile, you try to engage her in conversation even when you can tell her mind is somewhere else. When the song ends, she picks up her phone, glances at the screen, and says she needs to go. "Night, Amaro."

You shouldn't be so bothered. It's not like you're _actually_ friends. And non-friends don't discuss their psych evaluations and their relationship histories so openly with each other – not even under the guise of intoxication. It's not so much that she leaves abruptly after you thought you were both having a good time; it's the sad look in her eyes when she confesses that she's never had someone willing to die for her. It's hard for you to believe because you've always pictured a woman like Amanda having a line of men eager to jump in front of a bullet for her. But she doesn't think that's the case, and who knows better than her? You just wish she hadn't stopped when she answered the question because she was so close to bringing something to light, so close to feeling its weight off her shoulders.

The most important thing you learn tonight is what hasn't been said.


	10. Lost Stars

**AN:** _Thank you to the people who left reviews for chapter nine. I got some guesses here and on twitter re: Liv's mystery man. So far I've gotten Stabler, Barba, and Tucker. I can't reveal mystery man just yet but let me know who you think it is. I also want to mention that, while I'm sticking to the general timeline of the show, I will be rearranging certain scenes to better fit my story._

 _And I think only those with accounts know this but fanfiction's reader stats have been down for over a week, so I was a little dismayed to see such a sudden drop in readers. But now that I know it's a glitch, I'm relieved... but still annoyed that this site still hasn't fixed it. And even though I can't see the numbers, I hope you've all stuck around... Please tell me you're still here :(_

 _Anyway, chapter title and {lyrics} are from Keira Knightley or Adam Levine's Lost Stars from the film Begin Again. I'll let you decide on which version because I LOVE both, and you should seriously listen to both. Please read, enjoy, and REVIEW!_

* * *

 **Ruined Beyond Redemption**

 **10\. Lost Stars**

* * *

 _{best laid plans  
sometimes are just a one night stand}_

The phone call lasts longer than intended. You're calling to confirm plans for Maria and Zara to come up to the city next weekend; you're driving up to the mountains to hit the slopes (and fall on your asses). But making plans turns into catching up, and catching up turns into pining for the old days. Although it's unsettling to admit, you keep thinking it's all this magnified nostalgia that's keeping your long-distance marriage alive. So, you play along. You walk hand-in-hand down memory lane as you reminisce the good times – the cozy winter evenings keeping each other warm under the covers, the lazy Sunday mornings stirring from the cries of your baby girl.

Those fond memories make you more hopeful these two diverged tunnels can meet together with just a little more effort and communication. Those memories won't just be faded photographs pressed into an album tucked away on a dusty shelf. You want to believe you and Maria are going to get it all back. But, _honestly_ , your confidence is shaky at best. There's a bleak awareness of how this relationship feels like it's standing on the fragile legs of the past. And sooner or later, the considerable weight of the present is going to cause its collapse.

You release a heavy sigh from deep in your lungs, your warm breath rising into the early February air. Hope springs eternal for dreamers like you who still believe in promises of for-better-or-for-worse and 'til-death-do-us-part.

Neither you nor Maria want to be the first to put the phone down, and it feels like middle school all over again. But this time, it's less giddy nervousness; it's got more to do with the fear this spark is only a fluke. That, maybe tomorrow you two will go back to arguing over the little things when you should be discussing the big things – like firing your divorce lawyers and making decisions on where best to raise your child. For a dreamer, you sure are a pessimist.

As you reach the lobby of Liv's apartment and shake off the chill in the air, Maria tells you your daughter wants to say good night. She puts Zara on the phone and you hear the familiar lilt when she greets you, "Daddy!"

Zara knows she's pressed for time so she breezes through an update of her life, her friends (both real and on television), and how she's confident she doesn't need to practice on the bunny hill before riding up to the top of the mountain with you. She squeezes quite a bit of information into a five-minute chat, but it's not long before you figure her out and realize she's gabbing just so she won't have to get into bed. You wish her sweet dreams and wrap it up with a silly kissing noise (upon her request). Liv looks up from where she's standing and giggles quietly, and you respond with a scowl.

"Nick, she's begging for a story," Maria says, and you both know that's your cue to say good night even when you've wrestled ending this conversation since you called an hour ago. "You know I can't say no when she's giving me those puppy dog eyes."

"She gets them from me," you inform her smugly, and you can just imagine her ensuing eyeroll.

"Good night, Nick," she says, and as her voice becomes softer, she adds, "We'll talk again tomorrow."

"Night, Maria."

* * *

 _{cupid's demanding back it's arrow  
so let's get drunk on our tears}_

"It's not up for negotiation." Your hand grips tighter around the metal bar. The top bunk rattles as you force yourself to listen to her faulty logic and poor defense. "I don't see why we have to change our plans just because my son will be there."

"My problem is that you never even asked me if I was ok with him coming along to _our_ weekend," Maria argues over the phone, a noticeable edge in the tone of her voice. "Now, you've promised him, and I'm going to look like the bitch who says no because I was under the impression this was going to be quality time for _our_ family."

"Are you hearing yourself right now?" you ask rhetorically. "Gil _is_ family. He's my son and Zara's brother. They don't spend enough time with each other to begin with, so anytime they're in the same city I'm going to make it work. The kids wanna hang out, and isn't what they want what's most important?"

"Oh, so why don't you just invite Cynthia to sleep in our bed, too?"

You scoff like you've just been punched in the gut. It's no secret that Maria hates the fact that you fathered a child with another woman ten years ago. But once the initial shock wore off, she tried to be accepting of Gil. In the rare times they've been in the same room together, Maria had been kind and polite in a fairly formal and contrived way. She doesn't treat him as her own, and you don't expect her to. Gil is fine with you and Cynthia as his parents; he doesn't need the added confusion of having an unofficial stepmom in Maria.

But the least your wife can do is be more understanding and accommodating when it comes to helping you fulfill your commitments as a father. If she wants this marriage to work like she claims, then she's going to have to get on board with this whole blended family situation.

"No, Cynthia won't be there," you tell her. " _God_ , I don't know why you feel so threatened –"

"—Go to hell, Nick," she snaps, and you can feel the argument shift to a point where it's too late for apologies. "I'm not threatened by some spineless woman who lets her ex-con boyfriend use her son to sell drugs. I'm sorry if I can't get along with your baby mama, Nick; but I'm not going to be fake and pretend to be friends with a woman whose proudest accomplishment is getting her GED at 22. Frankly, you insinuating that I'm jealous of her _is_ insulting."

"And calling her spineless or suggesting she's stupid isn't insulting?" you bark back. It's one thing to say she doesn't feel threatened, but it's another story when Maria vilifies Cynthia for circumstances she could hardly control. Sure, she could've made better choices, but she didn't have a lot of options when she grew up in a drug den and she was single-handedly raised by an older brother who was a ruthless and psychotic monster. "You have no idea what she's been through."

"Great," Maria replies, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Then she can tell me and Dr. Phil all about her sad, pathetic life when she drops off her son next Saturday…. Or on second thought, maybe we should reschedule this little family pow-wow since Zara and I won't be going on this trip after all."

"Maria, you can't do that –"

"—Enjoy your weekend with your other family."

"Maria!" The call is clipped and all you're left with is dead air. You squeeze your phone in your hands and feel a sudden urge to throw it against the cinderblock walls. "Fuck!"

"I, uh, I can come back later," says a voice a few feet from where you're standing. Turning around, you see Amanda at the doorway with a folder in her hands and a flustered expression on her face. Amidst the rosy, embarrassed cheeks, there's concern in her eyes; but you don't have much time to stare back before she's spinning on her heels.

"Wait," you call out. "What do you need?"

Tentatively, she takes a step into the break room and hands you the folder. "Here's the transcript of your interview with Lisa Moore. Sarge left early so you'll need to sign it before we can send it upstairs." She hands you a pen and you skim over the pages, not really paying attention to whether or not the minutes are accurate.

"You ok?" she asks, chewing her lip nervously.

Nodding your head once, you sign over the dotted lines and, when you're finished, you close the folder and hand it back to her.

"Amaro," she says when she reaches the door. "Don't take this the wrong way, but… you look like shit and you look like you could use a drink." A small smile turns up at the corner of your mouth, and you momentarily forget why you look and feel like shit in the first place. Amanda lowers her head and returns the smile. "And you're in luck, because I'm feeling generous tonight so first round's on me. You up for it?"

* * *

 _{and god, tell us the reason  
youth is wasted on the young  
it's hunting season  
and the lambs are on the run}_

Amanda takes you to a place that's seedier than the squad's usual haunt. The dim yellow light makes everyone look jaundiced, but you don't stare for too long because the patrons look like they've stepped right out of the set of _Sons of Anarchy_. Thankfully, tonight's not the night she's decided to take you to a hick bar with crooning country music and wasted white girls precariously hanging off a mechanical bull. She promises to take you (and the squad) there eventually, but tonight it's all about convenience and proximity.

There are no cops around, which is strange considering it's a walk away from the 16th precinct; but it seems like a strategic choice on her part. As you sit on the bar, she knocks on the counter and tilts her head up to the bartender. He acknowledges her with both brevity and familiarity before mixing a glass of Jack and Coke, which she graciously accepts.

"What's your friend here having?"

"He's not my friend," Amanda blurts out, her widened eyes warning the bartender. "We just work together."

"Right," you add, and you can see he's not convinced by your compliance. He almost looks sorry for you. "I'll take a whiskey neat. Thanks."

Between your first sip and the bottom of your glass, Amanda doesn't ask about the phone call or the wife even though that had been the origin of this unlikely invitation. It's as if she can read your unwillingness to go into details. You share a drink without _really_ talking apart from concise updates about the open case of the missing boy, Nicky Moore. And as the shoptalk slowly fades into sporadic chats about the weather and the new bagel joint down the street, it allows you to quietly observe her reflection across the bar. There's a brooding stillness about her – the kind seen in the faces of those who are wise because they've lived through hell. But you don't ask because you can read the cover of _her_ book, and you know better than to try to turn past the first page.

Amanda promises you one drink and she keeps her word; that's all she has time for. Her phone rings and she glances at the caller ID but she doesn't answer. Her hand presses up on your knee as she hops down the stool. "I have to go."

"Dog emergency?" you ask, feeding the first part of the lie she's about to tell you.

She chuckles softly, but she doesn't sweeten the dishonesty with a fake tale of Frannie getting her paws on a Kit Kat bar. No, not this time. You know she's been lying and she's not even going to try to deny it. She's fine with it, because what harm is one pixel of truth going to do when you aren't privy to the whole picture?

* * *

 _{searching for meaning  
but are we all lost stars  
trying to light up the dark}_

"You don't know what it's like to lose one."

Alexa Pearson took a potshot at Liv's personal life and, immediately, you picked up on her sad eyes and slight frown. It didn't take someone well acquainted with her secrets to figure out _that_ had hurt. But knowing about her recently disclosed yearning to have a family just made it so much more difficult to stand there and allow your suspect to dismiss Liv's empathy just because she didn't have a child of her own. Still, apart from the micro-reaction, your sergeant didn't let the suspect's words affect the rest of the interrogation. At least, until Liv slammed the door to her office.

You knock on her door under the pretense that you have some new information regarding the case. When she realizes you're not here for that, she sighs, sets her glasses down on the desk, and props her head on her hands.

"What Pearson said – that wasn't right," you start. "Your personal choices shouldn't be used against you just because a really shit example for a mother happens to think a woman without kids can't speak on the matter."

"I don't really care." Liv lies through her teeth, and she sounds defeated more than indifferent. "Besides, it doesn't even matter… she's right. I don't know what it's like and I'll probably never know…."

"I saw the look on your face and it just made me think of the other night, when –"

She warns you with a stern look. "I told you those things in the privacy of my apartment _as friends_. And I trusted you not to bring it up at work."

"I'm sorry… Look, all I'm saying is don't let what she said hold you back from what you want."

Her frown relaxes slightly but her eyes remain austere. She hears what you're saying but she's not giving you any credit for extinguishing her doubts. And you can live without the pat on the shoulder, as long as she understands you're only bringing this up because you care about her.

As you rise from the chair, you drop the _friend thing_ (for now) and switch over to one of her detectives. "We should head out to the Cross Island Motor Lodge and check the room for Nicky."

But Liv shakes her head. "Rollins and I will partner up for this one. You and Fin go over the security footage," and that's when you start drawing the parallels between Liv and Amanda. They'll leave you these morsels of truth to keep you feeling like you're part of something, like you're not left behind in the darkness. When really, they can blow the flame out whenever they want.

* * *

 _{woe is me  
if we're not careful  
turns into reality}_

You're back in Amanda's bar because you've been in the groove of doing things against your better judgment, so why stop now?

This time, you promise to get the first round and she puts up no arguments. With the case behind you and Nicky back in the custody of his overworked parents, it seems like an improper yet convenient time to celebrate. She leads the way around the block from the precinct, three steps ahead of you at all times. Another strategic maneuver so no one gets any wrong ideas about the two of you. She rants about how a few passengers on the plane were pissed off their flight was delayed because the NYPD was searching for a missing boy who had run out of insulin. Once you arrive, she sheds her coat, sits next to you, and orders two whiskeys. You clink your glasses to another closed case and hope for the best for all the children involved.

"God help them," she says, wincing at the first burn of alcohol.

Two drinks in, the conversation shifts to NYPD bureaucracy and how the new administration is on constant alert, sending lapdogs like Hank Abraham to scrutinize every single fucking detail of your investigations. You can barely do your jobs as police officers when some clown, who prioritizes image above all else, is policing your work.

"Deputy Chief Commissioner for Public Information," Amanda sneers, reading the title on the calling card. "Just another bullshit job that's ten levels up my pay grade," she mutters, setting the card down on the counter and reusing it as a coaster for her drink. "What does he even do?"

"Cover the department's ass by calling screw-ups 'outliers' and 'isolated incidents'," you answer, and Amanda cocks her head to the side and arches her brows. "You know… so the NYPD doesn't actually have to take responsibility for anything."

"Yeah, I get it…" she trails off, her finger tracing the perimeter of the glass. "When did you get so jaded about the job?"

"It's not the job per se; it's all the other BS that comes with it." She nods her head in agreement. Lifting your drink to your lips, you pour it down to the last drop. "Another round?"

Four drinks in, Hank Abraham and the NYPD are on the back burner. Amanda's asking about your Narcotics days and what it was like working undercover. She's had a few short stints working UC (usually as a party girl or a high-class escort), but nothing that lasted over 24 hours. Apparently, going deep undercover has always been something she wanted to try out, but the opportunity just never arose. When she asks, you tell her you get a rush playing a character so different from your real self. There's a sense of adventure to it. The constant state of anxious anticipation makes you feel so alive.

But life in the fast lane wasn't all it was cracked up to be. There were crimes you witnessed that you couldn't do a thing about because it would've gone against your orders. Narcotics was trying to build solid cases against these drug traffickers so they could be placed behind bars without chance of parole. You couldn't risk ruining yearlong investigations by testing your hero complex on naïve street corner pawn and domestic abuse victims who had turned to pipes and needles for some reprieve. All you could do was turn your head and pretend nothing was wrong. And when the adrenaline ran dry from finally catching those bad guys, it was those faces you overlooked that haunted you in those quiet moments between wakefulness and sleep.

Five drinks in, Amanda is facing you, her crossed legs pressed against your thigh. She's talking about her time working for the APD and how it's always been a boys' club. The alcohol is making her open up a little more, but just like the other night, she's still biting her tongue on the specifics. She can talk about how her old squad room smelled of sweat ineffectively masked over with Old Spice. And she can tell you that it was like working in a frat house, but when you start asking questions she doesn't elaborate and she bats her lashes in an attempt to distract.

Instead of liquid courage keying her up to loosen her lips, she becomes more uninhibited with the physical contact. Her fingers brush up against yours, picking up _your_ drink to toss it down her throat. She smiles playfully before she signals the bartender for another round. Normally, you'd stop here because you're at the threshold between closing your tab and saving yourself from a wicked hangover, and stumbling out of the bar and passing out on the nearest available surface.

Amanda gets what she wants. She lifts the whiskey to your mouth and laughs as some of it dribbles down you chin. Taking the glass from her hands, you set it safely back down on the counter and lick your lips. Her thumb wipes off the beads of dark liquor on your skin, her stare piercing yours. It's hard to tell with the dim yellow light, but you swear to the high heavens that her eyes darken into a deeper shade of blue.

And heaven isn't too happy with where this is going.

You shouldn't even be thinking about the kiss, but it's all you can see, feel, and taste in your fogged up brain. It's your favorite memory of the girl next to you; and that's why it doesn't seem to be enough for it to happen _just_ once, for it to end _there_. Yeah, it's your fault it ended so abruptly so you probably deserve this provocation. And you know it's against your better judgment to want the kiss to happen again, but _God help you_.

Mentally, you smack yourself a few times. You need to focus on your wife even though she hasn't been returning any of your phone calls. You need to control yourself and not be so fucking transparent with your desire. Breaking away from her eyes, you sigh and cover your face with your hands. Spending time after-hours with Amanda makes things messier and more complicated; and _damn it_ , you know that. But you're still here, close enough to breathe in the flowers in her hair and the tobacco on her lips.

Amanda's gaze fixes on your hand, her bottom lip pouting slightly. "One day at a time still working out for you?"

"Huh?"

"When I asked about you and Maria, you said 'one day at a time'." She props her elbow up on the bar and rests her cheek on her hand. You study her face to see if she feels any sort of way about your attempt to save your marriage. It's been hard reading her lately with the walls she's built up and her habit of running away just as you feel like you're getting close.

"Honestly," you start to say, and this is the part when you should be shutting your mouth and keeping up the illusion that everything's fine, everything's perfect. But your truth slips out before you can recover. "One day it's like we're taking a step forward, and the next it's two steps back."

She chews on her lip, her gaze drifting from your eyes down to your mouth. All you can do is divert your attention somewhere other than Amanda, before you lose it and give into your impulse for another taste. Maybe it's just the alcohol giving you courage where courage has no business being. Or maybe it's all this confusion. Whatever it is – you're well aware of what it's doing to you, but you just can't get a handle on it because, here you are, still acting stupid.

Just when you think you have it figured out and your prayers are answered, someone comes along to make you realize you have no fucking clue what you're doing.

* * *

 _{maybe we'll find a brand new ending  
where we're dancing in our tears}_

Liv arrives home (back at _her_ apartment) with a bag of microwave popcorn, two bottles of wine, and a somber expression that promises a night of sulking. The way this week ends just like it started is a cool full circle moment. Liv asking you to make yourself useful and go buy popcorn from the bodega down the street. You, taking your sweet time because you're on the phone with Maria. You, having to return back to the store on your way back because you remembered everything but the popcorn. And now, with Liv coming back from family court, she stops by the bodega to kick off another week with your unofficial tradition.

The second the microwave dings, the scent of butter perfumes the air. Liv settles on the couch beside you as you go through the list of movies on demand. With Cassidy still away on his UC assignment, you don't have his reliable swing vote and it's going to be tougher to convince your partner to watch another _Die Hard_ movie. Halfway through the bowl of popcorn and into your first refill of pinot noir, you both agree on _Groundhog Day_ even though you've both seen it a handful of times since its release.

Sitting back and being in each other's company feels good. Neither of you will admit out loud to feeling alone, but this is why this _roommate thing_ works (at least until her boyfriend returns). It's nice not having to overthink. Liv's probably the only person in your life you can have a disagreement with, and not have the aftershocks linger like some cloud of dust. With her, you're not keeping track of who's putting in more work. With her, you don't feel like you have to restrain yourself from appearing too comfortable, from looking as if you want _more_.

Fifteen minutes into the film, it becomes background noise. It starts when you casually ask her about her visit to family court. She went down to check on the cases of the children who were previously in the Pearsons' custody. She admits she felt appalled that no one had claimed the baby they found in the drawer. You've seen the error in your ways and you know better than to push the issue of children with her - not since that conversation in her office. But she confesses she can't stop worrying about the baby's welfare.

"I've seen this before," you say, shaking your head. "It's usually a junkie leaving her kid because she knows she can't take care of him and sustain her habit at the same time. It's terrible, but it's hard to blame the mothers when the kid's most likely better off with another family.

"I know," she sighs. "Still, it's hard to imagine a mother leaving a perfectly healthy baby."

Last night, Amanda mentioned that when they found the children at the motel room, Liv spontaneously went on maternal mode. She held the baby until he stopped crying and tended to him until family services arrived. While Amanda had seen her boss interact with babies before, this was a completely new side to her. It was as if, upon seeing Baby Boy Doe, she had grown an instant connection.

Your arm wraps around her shoulder and she leans into you. "The younger they are the better their chances of finding an adoptive family. I'm sure he'll be fine."

Liv doesn't respond. She just looks straight at the TV but she's too deep in thought for it to be about Bill Murray's comedic timing. Her legs curl up on the couch as she nestles into the crook of your neck.

While you two have been through a lot as partners, nothing has brought you closer as friends as these last few weeks living together. She gets on your case about leaving laundry lying around, and you get on hers about all the wasted food in her fridge. But other than the typical roommate squabbles, you've grown more comfortable around each other. And with her late-night visits to mystery man becoming scarce, it's left you plenty of time to do 'friend things' like watching movies and eating your combined weight in popcorn (salt cleanses be damned). You and Liv still don't talk about everything, and that's fine. Sometimes, it's nice just having someone to lean on and be quiet with.

The lock clicks and you and Liv exchange a look. Before she can extract herself from your arm, Cassidy is at the doorway.

"What the fuck is he still doing here?"

He's back to talking about you like you're not even in the same room. Fair enough. You weren't supposed to be here; and to make matters worse he did just walk in to see his girlfriend cozied up next to you.

"What are you doing back?" Liv asks, getting up from the couch and knocking down the nearly empty bowl on the ground. She bends down to pick up the stray kernels just to distract herself from looking at her boyfriend's flushed face. "You weren't supposed to be back for a couple of days."

"What's he doing here?"

You push yourself off the couch. "I better go," you tell Liv and she nods her head. Walking around Cassidy and ignoring the deathly glare he's throwing at you, you walk toward the coat closet where you've stored your luggage. From the corner of your eye, you see him standing over Liv, his hands crossed over his chest.

"You still haven't answered my question."

"I asked him to stay until you got back," Liv finally explains. She sets the bowl on the coffee table before she stands up to meet him at eye level.

"What for?" he asks incredulously. "So you have someone to hold you while you're crying yourself to sleep?"

You're frozen, staring at the dark wall at the back of the closet.

"Brian," she warns. "You know it's not like that…. I just needed some company, someone to talk to…."

"And you'll talk to him?" He raises his voice. "I've been trying to get you to talk to me since last summer and all Amaro has to do is show up and leach off our groceries, and he gets the whole fucking story. And what? All I get is some vague voicemail –"

"Don't do this right now."

You pull the suitcase out of the closet and open it up, throwing all your clothes in there. Who cares about folding anything when you want to be anywhere but that apartment?

Liv's eyes narrow at Cassidy before she casts an apologetic glance in your direction. You lower your head and keep yourself busy. She grabs him by the elbow to lead him somewhere where they can have this conversation in private, but he pulls away almost like he's disgusted. You walk into the bathroom to get your razor and shaving cream, their voices sounding muffled behind the wall.

"I didn't leave that message to scare you!" she yells, and this time it's loud and clear. " _Christ_ , I never told you to leave! I wasn't trying to jeopardize your assignment."

You step out of the bathroom and neither one of them even notice you're still there. Reaching into the washing machine, you pull out your whites that are still damp and throw it on top of the growing pile in your suitcase.

"You were panicking when you called my emergency cell. What the hell was I supposed to do? I had to tell Tucker to go fuck himself… I needed to be home for you." Cassidy leans forward until he's in her face, and he hisses, "How was I supposed to know you already had someone here?"

You push down on your clothes and try to zip up your bag with not much success.

"Nick doesn't know," she replies meekly. "Anyway… you have nothing to worry about."

You force the zipper closed and set the suitcase upright. Your hand grips the plastic handle as you wheel it across the room. You realize you're still in a t-shirt and sweats so you scramble to get your sneakers on and your coat over your shoulders, but you can't find your sleeve. Where is the fucking sleeve?

"It was a false alarm." Liv's small voice cuts through the silence like a knife. It almost feels like you're back here in the apartment on your first night, hearing the hushed bickering through the thin walls and feeling relieved that you weren't the only one having problems. But this time, you don't derive any comfort from their misfortune. It all starts to fall into place – her reaction to Alexa's underhanded comment and her recurring fear for Baby Boy Doe. You open the door, your coat hanging off one arm and your shoelaces untied, and you step out. But before you can close it behind you, you hear her tell him, "Brian, I'm not pregnant."


	11. Cold Coffee

**AN:** _I want to start this off by th_ _anking those who reviewed chapter ten (may the karma gods bless you). Thanks for those who left me with guesses re: mystery man's identity. Please keep the theories coming. I got one person telling me they don't want Barba and another person telling me they do... hmmm... interesting. Anyway, the site went down the day after I posted this and people couldn't leave reviews *crying emoji* I hope FF has fixed their server issues and we won't be having this problem again in the future._

 _Chapter title and {lyrics} are from Ed Sheeran's Cold Coffee. I also use lyrics from Lego House toward the end of this chapter. Please read, enjoy, and REVIEW! Do it for rollaro & bensidy & benson/mysteryman!_

* * *

 **Ruined Beyond Redemption**

 **11\. Cold Coffee**

* * *

 _{she's like cold coffee in the morning  
_ _I'm drunk off last night's whiskey and coke  
_ _she'll make me shiver without warning  
_ _and make me laugh as if I'm in on the joke}_

The house is a mausoleum of memories. Professionally staged wedding pictures decorate the shelves, along with butterfly barrettes and one severed doll head from your daughter's collection. A crescent moon nightlight illuminates a path down the hallway, leading to a room where your bed is impeccably made. The white linens selected by the kind of woman who notices things like thread count and cotton quality. The house doesn't feel much like a home, and it's been this way since your girls moved out. So it shouldn't come as a surprise to you when you unlock the front door, turn on the lights, and all you feel is hollow.

The haunting nature of your house isn't bolstered in any way by the fact that your attempt at rekindling your marriage has gone up in smoke. Ever since Maria cancelled on those weekend plans, it's been tough to get a hold of her (even when all you want from her is time to see your daughter). You're reluctant to admit that you're notorious for holding grudges; but so is she. Looking around your house and seeing the furniture you picked out together, the mementos you brought back from your trips – they've all got her name scribbled out in invisible ink. These are daily reminders of what's slipping through your fingers.

Still, it beats being in the middle of the mess at Liv and Brian's apartment. You don't miss the periodic disappearing acts of your short-term roommates. But you do miss how their apartment felt like a clean slate to you. Now that you're back home, you feel trapped, like a permanent fixture in this decaying mass of wood and concrete. So, because you're the self-appointed expert at misusing avoidance techniques learned at anger management, you do whatever you can to stay away from 2022 Boller Avenue. You pull in more overtime and you reintroduce _strictly professional after-hours drinks_ into your agenda.

With you and Amanda making progress in the squad room without your CO's instruction, the invitations to share a drink off the clock have become more frequent. Some nights, with her coercion, you go so hard you're putting your college days to shame. You're sat on a barstool at The Lion's Head Tavern, where you learn she gives as good as it gets when it comes to ribbing. Other nights, she leaves after one or two drinks. A phone call or a flashing message otherwise engages her. You give up on asking because all she does is shoot you a devilish smile, which doesn't really tell you anything except she's up to no good. And if it's not her vice, the only other possible explanation is that she's sleeping with someone.

It shouldn't be a problem. It's not like getting drunk with her constitutes dating or exclusivity. Besides, you'd be a hypocrite if you gave two shits about her social life; after all, you're the one who's (supposed to be) getting back together with your wife. You can't have it both ways. Hell, you're not even sure which _way_ you're going with Amanda or if you're going anywhere at all. But even with the off-putting possibility that she's seeing someone, you can't help but be drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

And you know she's going to burn you.

The bartender's name is Mickey, and he's _oh-so-fine_ , your company points out. When he asks you to pick your poison for the evening, Amanda blushes, a coy smile curling at the corners of her mouth. "He'll have rum."

Later in the evening, she inches closer to you as her hair brushes against your cheek. "Pick your poison," she mimics the first words of the bartender when you arrived earlier. Her breath grazes against your ear before she pulls away to stare at you with smoldering eyes. But before you can even collect yourself to form a coherent response, she laughs and throws her head back. "Man, you should'a seen your face."

Spending all this time with Amanda, without the worry of constant supervision, she becomes slightly more open when it comes to sharing her little quirks. She runs her fingernails along the side of her neck when she's feeling fidgety, usually between drinks or whenever she gets one of her mysterious calls. When you're just talking about work or joking around, she can look at you with no problem. But the second the conversation shifts to her activities outside of work, she foregoes eye contact altogether. As good as she is at keeping secrets, her eyes can't hide the panic in response to a personal question.

Your impulsive curiosity paired with her secrecy makes for a natural pairing. You can't help but wonder. You can't help but let the mystery entice you until you end up noticing her in ways you once overlooked, but you now find fascinating. There's a sublime quality about her that peeks through in rare moments she drops her guard. It's this softness nestled in a box of sharp edges, trapped behind a wall covered in poison ivy. Meanwhile, you're physically sitting less than a foot away from her and you still feel like you have your nose pressed up the window. Everything good and beautiful only becomes visible to you when it's slowly unraveled by the surrounding destruction.

Her knuckles drum twice on the counter, her mouth twisting into a frown. She polishes off the rest of her drink and turns to face you. "See you Monday."

"Yeah," you say with a tight smile. It's not ideal when she leaves this early, especially on a Friday. But you try not to think about it too much because you don't want to give into the paranoia and picture her chain-smoking in Atlantic City, or worse, writhing underneath some guy who thinks he's some faux intellectual with his philosophy-for-dummies bullshit. "See ya."

She walks past you, but you reach out to hold her arm. She stops, frozen in her tracks, and turns around. "Rollins –" _Be safe_ , you want to tell her. _Don't do anything stupid_ , you want to beg. _Stay_ – it's all you really want to say. "Have a good weekend."

She smirks, her eyes shimmering with secrets you'll never uncover. "You too, Amaro."

* * *

 _{and you can stay with me forever  
_ _or you could stay with me for now}_

American Top 40 is drowning out muddled shoptalk and inebriated chatter about nagging wives waiting back at home. The squad is at the usual hangout – The Old Triangle, this Irish cop bar with a neon green four-leaf clover at the entrance. You're all here, plus Cassidy, and you're all supposed to be unwinding like the other cops; but instead, you're getting your heads together on the investigation of a comic known for his crude sense of humor and obnoxious rape jokes.

Liv appears irritated when her boyfriend reveals how he found the Josh Galloway video. He tenses up and stammers as he admits he had the guy's name set up on his Google alerts. She clenches her jaw, her body turning slightly away from him.

This is the first time you're seeing the two of them together since the fight at their apartment. She knows you overheard her no-pregnancy announcement, which, in all honesty, was close to being as shocking as an actual pregnancy. You planned on asking her about it, but on Monday morning as you both showed up in the precinct lobby at the same time, she shot you a badass Benson stare as a look of warning.

Judging from their civility tonight, things seem relatively better because they've stopped screaming at each other. But you can sense the unresolved tension that's only amped up with the revelation that her boyfriend's a fan of the pervert's stand-up.

Liv keeps her back to him. Lately, it's been strictly business with her in the squad room. You wonder if the problems at home have anything to do with how hard she's pursuing this case, even when your ADA strongly advises her to be more selective with her battles. This isn't a particularly strong case to begin with; and now with Galloway's shaming video, Carly's allegations appear even less credible. This uphill battle is getting a lot steeper for all of you. Your vic will have a rough time explaining why she withheld this information, but Liv will probably have it rougher trying to convince Barba to take it all the way to trial.

After watching that scumbag's face on the video, you find yourself at the bar needing another drink. Someone slips beside you, brushing up against your arm. It's that familiar scent of flowers with a faint, warm undercurrent of tobacco. You glance sideways to see Amanda biting on her bottom lip. She spins around and rests her elbows on the bar.

"You notice anything weird with Liv and Brian?" she asks.

Looking over your shoulder, you follow her gaze back to your table. The couple is seated beside each other, listening to Fin's rant on how comedians these days just rehash and repackage old jokes from the likes of George Carlin and Eddie Murphy. Liv has her fingers interlocked over the table, her shoulders squared up. Cassidy's nearly at the edge of his chair, his legs in a figure-four position pointing outward. Seeing is believing, and you can tell from their body language that they'd both rather be anywhere else than with each other.

"You lived with them for awhile," she points out. "You would know."

For someone who lived on their couch for a couple of weeks and witnessed the fight like some ghost in their apartment, you don't _really_ know (but you probably know more than you should). There's the whole issue of Cassidy's drawn-out, hush-hush assignments. Added to that are Liv's clandestine meetings with her mystery man, who she swears is just a friend but whom Cassidy can't know about. And then there's the elephant in the room – her wish to start a family.

"It's really not my place to tell," you say with faked aloofness, raising your arm to signal the bartender.

"So you do know?" Her eyes widen inquisitively.

You shrug. "No, not really… Uh, Cassidy hasn't been around much lately so I haven't noticed anything… Maybe that's the problem." You're hoping she drops the subject because once she starts asking questions, you imagine yourself wanting to share the burden of this wealth of information. And Amanda seems like the perfect springboard for your theories and vented out frustrations.

"That's a shame," she sighs, picking up the other beer left in front of you. "They make a cute couple."

"Seriously?" You raise a brow, mimicking her stance and leaning against the bar so you can better observe this 'cute couple'. " _That guy_ with Liv?"

"What, you think she's too good for him?"

"Yeah," you retort rather quickly before you realize how it sounds. You're not jealous of Cassidy, and you don't like your partner _like that_. But defending yourself right now just makes you look guilty for feelings you don't have. "He's not exactly the most upstanding guy –"

"—And she's Mother Teresa, right?" Amanda interrupts, taking a swig of her drink.

 _Not at all_ , you want to tell her. Your mind races back to last spring, walking into the beach house and finding her in the bedroom. William Lewis handcuffed, beaten bloody, and unconscious. Liv's fists clenched tight, knuckles white. You entered the room first and knelt down beside her, telling her _it's over, it's over._ Only when she stopped staring blankly at his bloodied face to meet your eyes did she allow herself to loosen her grip. The metal bar – a broken bedpost – rolled off her leg onto the floor.

No, she's not Mother Teresa.

On second thought, maybe she is. Because while Liv is the heart and soul of SVU, she's not always so righteous; and you read somewhere online that the nun from Calcutta wasn't shy from controversies of her own. Even saints have their demons.

Amanda nudges your arm, her lips pursing to signal a change in the room. You look in their direction to see Fin getting up and heading toward the bathroom. When he leaves, the couple doesn't speak or even look at each other, choosing to brood in their own silence until someone from the squad returns to the table and throws them a life jacket.

"It looks serious," she observes. "You think she found out he got with another prostitute?"

You shake your head. Liv likely deserves better – someone who's stable and reliable, someone who _gets her_ ; you'll stand by that. But you know how Cassidy feels about her, and no way is he going to cheat. She might be trying to sabotage her relationship, but he's trying. She might want different things, but he's the one abandoning his boss' orders to go be with his girlfriend, who he believed was in a panicked state. He's loyal to her. There's no way he would screw it all up for a cheap fuck.

Cassidy rises from the chair abruptly and heads out the door, leaving his girlfriend alone. You sigh, watching as Liv props her elbows on the table and buries her face in her hands. That's your cue. You head back to the table, and Amanda might be on your tail – you're not really sure. Draping your arm on Liv's chair, you turn to meet her weary eyes. "You ok?"

She smiles weakly. "Never better."

* * *

 _{tell me if you need a loving hand to help you fall asleep tonight}_

Just as you're advancing toward Liv's office, Barba storms out. It's odd because the city got Galloway on the sex offenders registry for ten years, so there's no reason for the ADA to be upset unless… it's a personal matter between him and your sergeant. Your suspicions about Barba being mystery man are heightened. He looks pissed off and you've met enough lawyers to know no one looks like that after a win.

As you step into her office, you note that she looks just as peeved as the man who just left. "What was that about?"

"Ego," she answers curtly.

"You saved his ass."

"Yeah, after I put it on the line," she says, hanging her head in shame. If Barba came in here to give her a hard time about pursuing a repeat offender, then that _Cubano_ can go choke on his pocket square.

"Well, he's a big boy, he'll get over it," you scoff and then add, "So will Cassidy."

"What?"

"You took down his favorite comic."

She rolls her eyes and returns back to the small stack of paperwork on her desk. "Good night, Nick."

But you don't heed to her request to leave; instead, you invite yourself further into her office, taking a seat across her desk. "Things any better with you and Cassidy?"

"Nick." Her voice is that of warning.

You don't move.

She blinks slowly, her hands folding over her desk as she sighs. "I'm sorry you we placed you in an awkward position. It wasn't right to have that argument while you were still there."

"Hey, Liv," you say, raising your hand up to stop the apology tour. "Don't worry about it. Couples fight. No need to act like that shit never happens…. Look, I just want to know if you're doing ok with, uh –"

"—The baby?" she finishes for you. "Or lack thereof… I don't even know what I was thinking, to be honest." She cradles her head in her hands, massaging her temples.

There's a sadness in her eyes you've noticed since Alexa Pearson made that offhand comment about motherhood. It's not easy seeing her in this vulnerable state because she's usually this pillar of strength, not just for the survivors, but also for the team. With everything you've been through together as partners and everything she's been through in the last year, it's hard not to hold her up above your ideals. When it comes to the subject of a baby, you're probably her biggest (and only) cheerleader. She really wants this family, and you're rooting for her; but, first, she needs to figure out her status with Cassidy.

"It was wishful thinking on my part," she confesses in a whisper. "There were a lot of things happening at once, and – I don't know – maybe it was the stress that made me late. I panicked, thinking I was pregnant and thinking I wasn't fit to carry a child. I shouldn't have left him that voicemail," she says, pressing her hand over her mouth. "The next morning, I felt different though. I looked at the possibility of having a baby as a blessing and it really got my hopes up. I took the test, wanting it to turn out positive…. But it didn't matter, because I was wrong. I wasn't pregnant." She looks away and pushes her hair to one side. "It turned out for the best… Brian was relieved I wasn't pregnant."

"Yeah, but that's not the reaction you wanted." Your statement comes off more like a question.

"Bri and I weren't planning on having a baby anyway. I don't think it's even in his radar, so I understand his reaction."

"Understanding it is one thing," you say. "But how did _you_ want him to react?"

She presses her lips together in a frown. "You're right; it's not what I wanted. I guess I wanted to see him just as disappointed as I was about it being a false alarm. Instead of being relieved and turning on ESPN, I wish he had seen that I wasn't taking it well. I wish he had told me that having a baby is something he could see doing with me."

"Have you told him yet about wanting a family?"

She lowers her head, the frown on her face deepening. You get it. She doesn't think Cassidy will be on board with the idea; and from what you know of the guy he doesn't exactly have the track record of a family man in the making. Still, you don't think it's fair for Liv to make assumptions about him and cut him off without giving the guy a fighting chance. You've been in a similar spot before with your wife. Maria's always been this strong, independent woman and that's part of the reason why she wasn't always quick to disclose the nightmares she was dealing with. Instead, she made assumptions about how you'd deal with the news of her PTSD; and that wasn't fair. Maybe she was right and you would've reacted poorly, or maybe she was wrong and you would've been supportive. You'll never know because you never got the chance to prove your worth. You just wish Liv would talk to the poor guy before it's too late and before it's beyond repair.

"His reaction after I told him I wasn't pregnant told me everything I needed to know." _No it doesn't_ , you want to argue. "It's become clear to me that maybe it's not meant to be long-term with Brian, and that's ok. But staying with him now puts everything else I want on hold… And I feel like I've been putting a lot of things on hold since I joined the academy."

"Liv, he probably reacted that way because you were freaked out on the phone and that's what he thought you wanted to hear. But maybe if you'd just be honest with him, tell him how you're really feeling… you never know, Cassidy could surprise you."

She shrugs her shoulders and sighs. "I think a family is something he wanted a long time ago, but this job can really change one's priorities…. I'm sure he outgrew that dream."

" _You_ haven't."

She gives you a tight smile in return. You understand where she's coming from. Besides, she knows Cassidy better than you do and she's probably drawing from personal experience. You know better than to change her mind at this point. What's important is that you've said your piece and even though she's choosing to act contrary to your advice, you're still going to be by her side for what happens next.

Chuckling softly, she shakes her head. "How is it that both my partners have the family and career, and with me, it feels like I can only choose one? And now all this time has passed and I'm not getting any younger…" she trails off. "You know, I keep dreaming of this ticking metronome and –" she stops herself, her eyes glazed and looking so faraway.

"Liv, you all right?" you call her name and she snaps back into the present. "Look, I don't know much about your old partner but I heard his marriage was pretty rocky, too. You're not exactly using the best examples here." Being a cop, it's not easy balancing the job and the family. Most people in this line of work are either lone wolfs, divorced, or cheating on their spouses. There are success stories, but those are _already_ good people with the best intentions when it comes to raising their children; it has nothing to do with the rank on their badge. "You have nothing to worry about… You're going to make a good parent. Trust me on that."

"Thanks, Nick," she says, forcing a smile. There's a comfortable lull in your conversation, and all you hear for a while is the buzz of footsteps and typing right outside her office door. "You know what's really weird," she starts vaguely, "How something that wasn't even real – something that was all in my head – could be so… painful."

"There's nothing weird about it. I… uh, Maria and I – we've been there."

She furrows her brows, her mouth slightly agape.

"After we had Zara, Maria and I tried to have another baby." You pause, not really sure why you're telling her this story and why you're even opening this repressed chapter in your life. Part of it is you trying to reach out to her any way you can to make her see she's not alone. And while your situations are different, experiencing disappointment with a negative pregnancy test is something you've both been through. "Maria grew up an only child, and so she always wanted to have a big family – three or four kids running around the house. That was always her dream – our dream, really," you say, swallowing hard. We tried for a couple of years, even saw some doctors, and –" you stop, deciding not to go any further. Liv gets the point. There's no need to dredge up August 8, 2008 from the basement of your brain.

She nods somberly, silently telling you to continue.

"Anyway, it didn't work out. Broke her heart. And so Maria reenlisted to get her mind off it. Poured herself into her work after that."

"But you two have Zara," Liv reminds you, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Yeah we do. And we're so lucky to have her." You reach across the table to squeeze her hand. "Hey, don't feel so down. Just because you were hoping for something real and it didn't happen, doesn't mean it won't happen sometime in the future. It will, Liv."

She places her free hand over yours and squeezes gently. "It will."

* * *

 _{tell me how to fall in love the way you want me to}_

You hold the door open for Amanda and she brushes past you to step out into the night. Tucking her chin into her cozy scarf, her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles in appreciation. Weather reporters are calling it the coldest night of the year with temperatures dipping in the negative double digits. Reaching into your coat pocket, you slip on your leather gloves and follow her down the precinct steps.

There's nothing out of the ordinary when she slides past your desk and sends an invitation to Mickey's place after your shift. Mickey's the name of the bartender at the Lion's Head Tavern, which she frequents (and you suppose, now you do). She doesn't say the name of the bar out loud in the off chance someone walks by and overhears. It's her little secret, she tells you with her finger pressed against her lips. While everyone else in the 1-6 is fighting for breathing room at The Old Triangle, you and Amanda have your own hole in the wall haunt, where she promises the whiskey will warm up your bones.

But you're not thinking about the whiskey when she mentions warming up.

Tonight, you're not really in the mood to drink but you also don't want to lose her company. You can't think of any other options off the top of your head. People who go to dinner this late are usually out on a date, and you know neither one of you want to give off that impression. She walks a step ahead of you; the wind blowing through her blonde strands. Turning over her shoulder, she narrows her eyes playfully. "Keep up, Amaro."

You fall into step with her, your coat sleeve brushing against hers. "Hey, what do you say we get coffee instead?" you suggest, and she stops in her tracks. "The Starbucks around the corner is open until twelve."

She shrugs one shoulder, but fortunately for you she doesn't reject your suggestion. "Sure. Why not?"

Placing your hands in your pockets, you continue down the street. She shudders as a gust of wind blows against your exposed faces. "Can't take these Northeast winters?"

She lifts her shoulders up to her ears and smirks. "I can take anything."

"Uh-huh," you respond disbelievingly. "Says the girl whose teeth are chattering."

Amanda forces her lips together and bumps her shoulder against yours. She veers away quickly before you can retaliate. There's a mischievous gleam in her eye before she sprints a few feet down the sidewalk, her breathless laugh echoing in your ears. Her cheeks are rosy, almost like the color of her lips in this biting air. You can't help but keep your eyes on her because you're suddenly reminded of your daughter telling you she looks just like Elsa from _Frozen_. And under the glow of the streetlamp and with the snowflakes descending upon her lashes, you can see it.

"Come on! I'm freezing my balls off!"

 _Way to ruin the moment_ , you think to yourself, laughing as you walk up to her. "Didn't know you had balls, Rollins."

"Bigger than yours."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah," she says, biting on her bottom lip. She leans up and gets so close that her breath ghosts over your skin. Looking left and right around the nearly empty street, she tiptoes and whispers into your ear, "Wanna see 'em?"

Rearing your head back, you chuckle. "You're sick and twisted, you know that?"

"You've met my sister, right?" She asks jokingly, cocking her head to the side in feigned curiosity. "The crazy runs deep in this family. Of course, _I_ haven't framed anyone for murder yet so I haven't tipped the scales of mental instability that far."

Honestly, it makes you a little uncomfortable when Amanda says things like that about Kim. You were there to witness the nightmare her sister put her through, and you had been the one to record Kim's confession – the one that effectively got IAB off Amanda's back and drop those murder charges. And while you can tell that it still gets to her that her sister betrayed her, you've learned from recent evenings that making light of it is just one of her coping mechanisms. And it applies, not just to her sister, but the rest of her 'country bumpkin family'.

"It's a late night, there's a dark alley 'round the corner… you should be scared," she says spookily, widening her eyes and grinning naughtily. Her mitten-covered hands curl up in front of her face like a monster ready to attack, but in reality she resembles an adorable kitten trying her best to be scary. In a way, it works because now your heart feels like it's beating out of your ribcage; but it's only scary for unintended reasons. She growls but it sounds more like a purr, and she can't keep the straight face because a second later, she's bent over in a fit of laughter. "Dude, you should'a seen your face."

"Shut up, Rollins."

"Make me," she challenges you, getting so close to your grill all you have to do is lower your head just a little and you can make her shut up. Your mind is racing. Your breath is lodged up your throat. A buzz in your coat pocket interrupts your thoughts, and it's loud enough that Amanda hears it. Her gaze drifts down to the light coming out of your pocket.

"Amaro," you answer the call, looking apologetic at Amanda, who's taken a few steps back to give you some semblance of privacy. "Oh hey, Cynthia…" You pull it away from your ear and mouth a 'sorry' to Amanda, but she brushes it off like it's no big deal.

"Nick, I'm sorry but I really need a favor," she tells you, and you can hear from the background noise that she's in a rush, running around her apartment. "I got a last-minute catering job for an after party at the Four Seasons. A server backed out and my friend called me and I – uh, and the money is good," she rambles. "Can Gil stay with you tonight?"

"Yeah, of course. Do you want me to pick him up at your place?"

"If you don't mind."

"No, not at all. I'll be there as soon as I can," you say, and you catch a glimpse of Amanda's downturned eyes. She tucks her chin further down into her scarf.

"Thank you so much, Nick," Cynthia breathes out raggedly, finally slowing down from what you assume is her trying to get ready and trying to pack Gil's overnight bag at the same time. He's a good kid but he's likely to pack comic books and his video games before he remembers to pack extra clothes and a toothbrush.

"No problem. I'll see you soon."

When you hang up, you sigh and watch as Amanda casts you a knowing smile. "Rain check?" you ask her, and she nods her head once. "Sorry, Cynthia got a last-minute catering job and she asked if I could watch Gil."

"Yeah, no, I get it. Go spend time with your son," she says, a smile plastered on her face. "By the way, is he still into Spiderman?"

"You remembered?" you asked surprised. Weeks before Gil's birthday back in June, you and Amanda were interviewing a witness who worked at a comic book store. You found a collectible Spiderman action figure – the kind that was on a poster taped in your son's room. It turned out to be the perfect gift because seeing Gil lost for words the moment he ripped through the wrapping paper was priceless.

"You went on a shopping trip instead of focusing on the case – how could I forget?" she teases. "Does he still play with it?"

"Nah, the kid knows it'll lose its value the second he tears it out of the packaging. He keeps a shrine of it on his shelf," you quietly laugh at the memory. "But he's actually more into The Hulk now. He likes that Bruce Banner is an intellectual but with the flip of a switch, the guy turns green and loses his shit."

"Kind of like you then."

Narrowing your eyes at her, you shake your head with a smile. "Everything except the intellectual part. But yes, I do, in fact, turn green when I flip out."

She chuckles. "Yeah, you did look a little olive-y that one time I was a honeytrap and you were on the bike. You went all _Hulk Smash_ on our perp."

"Central Park? Evil twin?"

"Bingo," she exclaims, pointing her fingers at you.

"The guy deserved it," you say, and watch as she crosses her arm over her chest and shakes her head at you in feigned disappointment. "Anyway, I better go."

"Mhmmm…"

It's a little awkward standing in front of each other when you're both trying to find the words to say goodbye. Neither one of you is saying anything or moving an inch until she points to the end of the street. "I'm taking the train."

You point the other direction back toward the precinct. "Car's parked in the lot."

She takes a step back and so do you, but her eyes are still locked on yours.

"Bye, Amaro."

The sole of your shoe hits the icy pavement as you take another backwards step. "Bye –" But your words are cut off when your back collides loudly with metal. A sheet of ice falls on the ground as you glance behind you to see a USPS mailbox has decided to take the position of defensive tackle.

Amanda's hands fly in front of her mouth to suppress the giggles as you try to regain your balance and pretend what happened didn't just happen. _God_ , you're such a fucking dork.

"I should probably watch where I'm going."

"Good idea," she says between giggles. Rocking on her heels, she stuffs her hands into her coat pockets, and she looks cuter than any Disney princess that shoots icicles from her eyeballs. Or wait, _no_. Elsa doesn't do that. "Night."

"Night, Rollins."

You turn around and retrace your steps back to the station with your eyes ahead of you this time. You don't get very far before you're finding yourself wanting to see her again. And since you've got such poor self-control, you stop and look over your shoulder down the stretch of road. But Amanda's gone; all you see is a flash of blonde hair disappearing down the green rails leading to the subway platform.

You wear a smile on the drive between boroughs, the radio blasting music at a volume that makes you want to sing along if only you knew the words. As soon as you and your son arrive home, you unlock the door and throw your keys into a weathered ceramic bowl. He hangs his winter jacket on the hook, still humming wordlessly to the last song you both heard on the radio.

 _I'm out of touch, I'm out of love  
_ _I'll pick you up when you're getting down  
_ _And out of all these things I've done, I think I love you better now._

Gil yawns, and you press a kiss to the top of his head, before he follows the path of the crescent moon nightlight down the hall.


	12. Loud Places

**AN:** _Hey! Thank you to everyone who left reviews for chapter eleven. The rollaro build-up continues here... Disclaimer: I borrow dialogue that was used in the episode Gridiron Soldier. If you're a Rollins fan then I think you'll enjoy this chapter, because there's tiny breadcrumbs (lol) of her upbringing mentioned. Aaaaand, if you've been following Liv and her mystery man saga, well... *spoiler alert*_

 _Chapter title and {lyrics} are from Loud Places by Jamie xx. As always, please read, enjoy, and review!_

* * *

 **Ruined Beyond Redemption**

 **12\. Loud Places**

* * *

 _{I go to loud places  
_ _to search for someone  
_ _to be quiet with  
_ _who will take me home}_

Headmaster portraits framed in burnished gold decorate the paneled halls. Students file out of auditoriums, salt-stained boots marching over the school's marble emblem of a hawk. Perched at the top of the stairs, it's easy for you to pick out which ones in the crowd have the most school spirit. They're the kids wearing the forest green jackets with the white stripes on the sleeves and the names sewn on the back. Standing in the midst of fresh-faced students eager for the real world yet simultaneously saddled by crippling debt, you feel ancient – like you might as well be one of the oil paintings on the wall.

It feels so long ago when you were just like them, wandering from lecture to lecture, trying to stay upright on less than three hours of sleep. College is where you suspect your addiction to energy drinks stems from. At the time, your fatigue could've been a result of an all-nighter in preparation for a midterm, or it could've been the adverse effect of rites of passage you had to endure to become part of the football team. Tryouts were a piece of cake compared to your admittance to the brotherhood. And while it seems like a lifetime ago, with worse clothes and regrettable hair cuts… and you don't feel like your legs are as fast as they were when you were nineteen… the images of blue and yellow jerseys feel so vivid.

But your state college doesn't hold a candle to Hudson University. While it's never ranked high in academics (or campus safety, for that matter), the institution overlooking the river does have one of the country's most renowned athletic programs. Players have aspirations to go pro; and it's not some pipe dream when the university has produced a number of household names in the NFL. These kids have the resources to make it that far. And with good sports teams, the trend seems to indicate a reputation for being a top party school.

You were part of a team of players who knew college football was the furthest you could strive for in the sport. If you had done things you weren't proud of then, what more would you discover in a league where the stakes are higher?

"Excuse me, would you happen to know how to get to the library?" A woman in her late-forties approaches Amanda. She has an unfolded campus map in her hands and an overstuffed messenger bag that would make any chiropractor cringe.

Amanda's eyes flash in surprise and she furrows her brows at the frazzled woman. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm not a student…"

"Oh," she says, turning to you with the question in mind.

You point past her shoulder. "At the end of the hall, there are stairs. Go down a floor and there's a tunnel that connects to the library."

"Thank you!" She beams appreciatively, clasping her hands together like she's in prayer. The woman disappears into the crowd, and you can see from the corner of your eye that Amanda's casting you an inquisitive look.

"When I worked Narco, we got a lot of campus calls… Rich kids from out of town aren't used to how dealers operate in the city."

She nods her head, temporarily satisfied by your answer. "Ever had to work undercover as a college student?" she asks, leading the way to the entrance of the Academic Building. You take a few brisk steps in front of her to push the door open and hold it for her. It's not something you ever really think about; it's just a habit. But she seems to notice as she pauses mid-step and narrows her eyes as if chivalry is offensive. "So?"

"Huh? You mean, like 21 Jump Street?"

She smiles genuinely, and it's the first time you're seeing that expression on her face since this case landed on your desks (or rather, since she went gung-ho on this case at the request of a friend from back home). You don't know much about your vic's uncle, Larry Jones, or his history with Amanda; but you do know she cares about him enough to dedicate all this overtime to the investigation.

You overheard Larry and Fin's conversation while you were busy processing Cedric. You learned that Larry and Amanda used to run track in high school. He was proudly telling Fin that his partner still held the county record for fastest time in the women's 100-meter dash. When Fin jokingly pressed for details on what she was like in high school – if she was a popular girl, a jock, a nerd, or every other _Breakfast Club_ stereotype under the sun – Larry didn't elaborate much, but he said something that captured your interest.

" _She had a good head on her shoulders – great athlete, even better student. No one really expected it from her considering her family's situation."_

If it had been you talking to Larry, you would've taken your chances and asked more questions. But he was talking to Fin, and Fin's the kind of guy who has the self-discipline to know when to back off and to know when a conversation is starting to become an invasion of privacy. So, he shifted gears and brought the topic back to Cedric.

The wind is brisk and the sun is bright, reflecting off the pristine white covering the ground. Walking down the pathway toward the parking lot, you cast a sideways glance to see Amanda pulling her dark frames over her eyes. In this light, you can see how anyone else can mistake her for a college student.

"Is it true?" she asks out of the blue, "about you playing cornerback?"

"Yeah, but nowhere near the level of those guys," you admit. "We played Division II, so we didn't have the added pressure of trying to impress scouts… What about you? Heard you ran track in high school."

"I did, but no scouts came looking for me either." A smirk curls at the corner of her mouth and she shakes her head.

"Really? Larry mentioned you're a record holder."

"You talked to Larry?" Her eyes widen in apprehension.

"Uh, not really. I was processing Cedric and I guess I eavesdropped when he was talking to Fin," you confess with a sheepish smile. Immediately, you take note of how her expression changes. She looks anxious and uncomfortable at the thought of you and her partner speaking to someone from her past. "I didn't mean to listen –"

"—It's fine," she cuts you off. "What else did Larry say about me?"

You shrug. "Nothing, apart from you running track and being good in school."

"That's all?" She asks, her lips pressed together in a slight frown. Her forehead creases like she doubts you; and to be fair, _that_ wasn't everything he said so she has every reason to suspect you're not being one hundred percent truthful. You heard about the family situation. And you met her younger sister, so you just put two and two together and assume growing up at the Rollins' household was nothing short of a train wreck.

"Why? Was he holding out on information?" You chuckle, easing the mood slightly by bumping your arm against her shoulder. Her eyes dart up and she blinks twice. "He's not covering for your wild teenage years, is he?"

She fakes a laugh at your teasing, but you can tell there's something brewing behind those stormy blue eyes. "I may not have been choir material like you, Amaro, but 'wild' would not be the word I'd use to describe my years in high school."

"Ah, so you're back to calling me choirboy?" You smirk, and she lowers her head with a smile she's (adorably) trying hard to keep a secret. There's something about the fleeting bashfulness that makes your gut feel suspended in the air, like you're a millisecond away from that drop on a rollercoaster. You glance over at her, watching as soft pink flushes across the apples of her cheeks. "I think you should know, Zara covers her ears whenever I attempt to sing along with the radio. So, no, I've never been 'choir material'. Sorry to disappoint."

She clicks her tongue in feigned disappointment. "You've shattered the illusion… I guess you're not so easy to figure out after all."

"You know, you're not that easy to figure out either."

"What?" she exclaims, twisting her mouth into a mischievous grin. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm an open book."

You can't help but laugh because that couldn't be further from the truth, and she knows it, which is why she doesn't say anything to challenge your reaction. "Apart from work, I don't really know much about you, Rollins." It's a factual statement. You don't say it with the intention of inviting her to talk about her past. Yeah, you're interested in knowing as much as you can about her – knowing what makes her happy, what makes her angry, what makes her forehead crease when she's lost in her own thoughts. You want her to open up and you want to prove to her that you can be trusted, that you can provide your undivided attention. There hasn't been a mystery you've ( _almost_ desperately) wanted to solve quite like this one. You want nothing more than to figure out the reasons behind that sly smile and those troubled eyes of hers.

"What was it like growing up in – what's that place… something-ville?"

"Loganville," she answers. The pace of her steps quickens as the unmarked cruiser appears in your line of vision. She crosses her arms over her chest, and you don't know if it's from the breeze that's picked up or from her reluctance to answer your question. But then she sighs and opens her mouth to speak. Closing it once and opening it again when she's shaken off whatever fear was keeping her from talking. "Loganville's the kind of small town where everyone knows everyone. It's hard to keep a secret in a place where your neighbors are all up in your business."

"You had secrets to keep?"

Amanda readjusts her scarf and scratches the side of her neck. "Nothing serious," she says. "I know Kim's told you we didn't have much growing up… And, uh, my folks had some creative means of making sure my sister and I were fed. They kind of built a reputation for themselves around town… My daddy owed some people, made his enemies… And my mom made it a point to sort it out by spreading her legs. For the most part, it worked. Debts were cleared and bills were paid… But news of what she would do to get out of a bind _sorta_ spilled over to me and Kim. And, well…"

"Uh… shit," you say, silently cursing yourself for being so damn inarticulate. "I'm sorry to hear that."

She shrugs her shoulder nonchalantly, as if those rumors don't faze her anymore. "Folks from Loganville either want to spend the rest of their lives there, or they do whatever they can to leave," she says, looking up to meet your gaze. "Guess which camp I fall into."

* * *

 _{didn't I take you to higher places you can't reach without me?}_

"Ok, so we know that there are mitigating circumstances," Amanda says. "Can we tell that to the victim?"

"He was gay bashed, he doesn't care why," Fin replies, almost sounding exasperated with his partner. It takes a lot to see him pushed to that edge, but you can understand why he's losing patience here. Amanda is letting her personal connection to the victim's family dictate the investigation; and the more experienced detectives on the squad have no qualms about pointing it out to her. The case is weak – objectively, you see it too. But you've seen hazing like this happen far too often (both as a cop and a football player), and your gut tells you the team is closing ranks to hide atrocities that go far beyond what they did to Cedric. You can't let this go.

"And don't forget attacking a police officer." Fin gestures toward you sitting at your desk. Your head perks up at the mention of your most recent encounter with Cedric, and how he flipped his lid in the interrogation room.

"No, I'm fine. I provoked him. Let that go." And for a split second that goes unnoticed by your peers, Amanda looks at you with gratitude.

"What about the football team?" she asks. "I mean, when are we charging them?"

"How about never?" Fin replies. "He was a consenting adult."

"Yeah, with two female hostesses, not the male cheerleader," you point out.

"Yeah, but he was a consenting adult until they took the blindfold off," he argues.

Amanda exhales. "Come on, Fin, it was rape by deception."

"That's not something we can charge in New York," Olivia states matter-of-factly.

"Well, how about rape three?" Amanda asks again, refusing to quit. Normally, you'd call attention to her stubbornness and how it's affecting her objectivity; but you don't this time, because you're on her side.

"You want us to arrest Ty, the gay cheerleader?" Fin stares at her incredulously, his (usually unwavering) patience wearing thin.

"Yes, that's a start. Because maybe he's gonna turn on the guys that put him up to it. And there's football players there that were –"

"—Cedric didn't file charges," Fin interrupts her, his tone softening despite the restlessness in his partner's voice. "Come on, man. I know you're close to the family, but you've done all you can do."

"Fin's right," Liv agrees, walking past her. "Barba told me just last week to pick my battles, and this one is just not a good one."

It's interesting she mentions the ADA, who's been the subject of your speculation in recent weeks. It only serves to reinforce your theory, when she discloses how she's bending her own firm beliefs to make concessions for Barba, that he's the guy she's been seeing. Or platonically having drinks with – _whatever_.

"Wait, h-hold up." You stand up to stop them from giving up on the investigation so easily. "Look, we know Zoe and Tanya, the hostesses, were in on this prank. It can't hurt to talk to them."

Amanda crosses her arm across her chest and stands next to you. "Cedric is a victim. He was sexually assaulted. Aren't those the battles we're supposed to be fighting?"

"You two a team now?" Liv asks tersely. For a few seconds, you and Amanda are both silent, but Liv saves you from the embarrassment when she raises her voice. "Go, last chance. But I don't want to hear about it again until you have something."

"Copy that, sergeant," Amanda utters barely a whisper.

You grab your coat, as Amanda stands rooted in place, her head lowered. "Come on, Rollins. Let's go."

Pressing the down button on the elevator, you sense the warmth of her body slide next to you. She keeps her eyes trained on the floor, her fingers fidgeting with brown leather gloves. Stepping inside, you remain in silence until the doors slide shut. She releases a heavy sigh and her small voice fills the restraining metal box. "Thanks for having my back."

"Yeah, no problem."

In your head, you try to convince yourself that it's not really about having her back because you believe Cedric Jones was sexually assaulted, and he deserves justice. There may be gray areas with the issue of consent, but you don't think it's an impossible battle as long as you do your job and get your witness statements in order. That sinking feeling, that the hazing is so much worse than what you know now, comes back at full force. These initiations didn't start with Cedric, and if you abandon this case now, it won't end with him.

Not that hazing was ever this bad back in your college days, but you were aware of your teammates using similar tactics to punish new recruits. Even experienced players weren't immune when they failed to perform to the team's expectations. While the pranks were morally ambiguous, none of what happened then constituted as illegal. And while you didn't exactly orchestrate any of it, you still turned a blind eye and allowed it to happen.

Maybe this is just you making good for the past. A college football investigation is reminding you of another guilt-ridden event that happened a long time ago. And hellfire is chasing you, coming close, licking your feet – and you just got to make penance before it's too late. Before you're eternally damned.

Or, perhaps, Amanda's right, and you _are_ doing this because you have her back. Or, subconsciously, you want her to think you have her back. In spite of logic telling you pursuing this case would be a legal nightmare – one that would have Barba rolling his eyes to the back of his skull – you're still here chasing leads with her. For the last couple of days, you've watched intently at her determination to seek justice for Cedric. And you can't help but want what she wants, too.

It's a little terrifying; it almost feels like the same kind of blind loyalty that comes from being part of a football team.

The elevator doors slide open and you walk through the precinct lobby to get outside. Amanda's jittery. She removes the gloves she just slipped her hands in and reaches into her pocket. She stops abruptly.

"You mind if I smoke?" she asks, her fingers squeezing around the box. "Just one."

"No, go ahead."

She flips the carton open and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it up under the cover of her shaky hand. Sucking her cheeks in, she takes a long drag before releasing the smoke into the air. Her lids close over her eyes and her tense shoulders slump forward. "Sorry," she says, flicking ash and embers on the sidewalk.

"Don't apologize."

"I just –" she begins, only to stop herself. It's always like this with Amanda; to the point where you've almost programmed yourself to expect her to cut her self off mid-sentence. But maybe, this time, you can thank the calming side effects of the nicotine, because she decides to open up. "They're right," she says about Fin and Liv. "This case is a clusterfuck… But I can't let this go. I just… I can't."

Her voice breaks but she tries to disguise it by taking another long drag. Her gaze flits back to the precinct, and she passes the smoke through her nostrils. You search around the street, checking to see if there's anyone around you recognize. Apart from familiar faces from the precinct, no one from Special Victims is down here. You take a step towards her. "Why is this so important to you?"

She lifts her shoulders close to her ears then she drops them with a heavy sigh. "Everyone back home is counting on me."

Without thinking, you raise a brow and maybe she takes it as you being skeptical, because she instantly becomes defensive.

"You don't get it –"

"—Try me."

She blows another puff of smoke into the air and shakes her head. "It's the story of my life. I've always tried so hard to keep everything in order and not to mess up, so when the people around me do, they know they can depend on me. I guess, they know they can take advantage of that… know they can call me to help them fix their lives. Not that I blame Cedric," she makes it clear. "But you think Larry came up with the idea of asking for me all on his own? No, he talked to my mom and she told him to come to me. Told him that I would sort it out like I always do," she scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Thing is, in spite of trying so hard not to make a mess of my life, I'm just as much of a screw-up as they are… Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

Amanda flicks her cigarette into the bin. Something about the last thing she said feels like a punch in the gut. Maybe it's because you've heard that expression used to describe your temper in comparison to your father's. You don't appreciate the sudden intrusion of your old man's obnoxious face flashing before your vision. But it does allude to the parallels in yours and Amanda's lives. That sense of responsibility is a common theme. That constant worry your genetic code runs deeper than the superficial features that only make up a tiny percentage of who you are. While you don't now much about her mother – just bits and pieces of vague information you've collected from her and Kim over the years – you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that she's being hard on herself. And while you've only scratched the surface of who Amanda Rollins is, you know she's better than she's giving herself credit for. She shouldn't be comparing herself to her mother, just as much as you shouldn't be comparing yourself to your father.

"You're not a screw-up, Amanda. Trust me."

But that empty look in her eyes tells you she doesn't trust you enough to believe you. Without a word, she holds her hand out for the car keys and you press the cold metal onto her palm.

* * *

 _{you go to new places  
_ _with I don't know who  
_ _and I don't know how  
_ _to follow you}_

Hudson University dodges a scandal when Coach Becker takes a plea and spares everyone a trial. Likewise, you can almost hear the collective sigh of relief from the DA's office. A case like this would cause major divisions. No district attorney with any political aspiration would want to touch a case against Hudson University and its football program with a ten-foot pole.

That adage, 'any publicity is good publicity', doesn't ring true here because the last thing any of the parties want is to draw attention to the rampant sexual assault that was happening behind locker room doors. Even the victims don't want the public to know about this. And normally, you'd want them to know so they'd do their civic duty of shaming and vilifying perpetrators like Coach Becker. Kind of like how they did with you when you were accused of a hate crime. But you can understand why Eddie Thorpe and the growing number of victims want to keep this quiet; you're just going to have to save the vindictiveness for another felon. With NFL drafts coming up, they have a lot riding on their future; and it's not something they want getting out there.

Most experts in the field of psychology say the most effective way of moving forward from sexual assault is for others to bear witness to their story. Talking it out is usually the best way to cope. But every single one of those players, who were victimized under Coach Becker's watch and instruction, are all relieved the case isn't going to trial. You don't know what that means for their recovery, but perhaps a multi-million dollar contract can offer up an alternative solution.

But where does it leave Cedric Jones?

The kid had a bright future ahead of him until a series of unfortunate events and decisions led to a suicide attempt that broke his neck. Now, he never gets to play football again. And for a fleeting moment, you're reminded of Yusef. You don't even know if the kid you shot ever expressed an interest in the sport, but what does it matter now? You took that away from him, too.

Since you heard the news that Cedric tried to hang himself, you've been keen on Amanda's guilt trip. It's not a good look on her, and you wonder if this is how you look like to the rest of the squad on a regular basis. She's blaming herself. She's saying she shouldn't have pressured him to press charges. Every time she tries to help someone out, she just ends up making it a lot worse. Like the opposite of Midas' touch, you know exactly what that feels like.

You see an officer rushing a suspect; you run and back her up. You see an officer in distress after a bullet is lodged in her leg; you shoot your weapon in, what you believe to be is, self defense.

But Amanda can't take the blame for what happened with Cedric because it was his mental state that compelled him to tie the rope around his neck. She had no control over that. It wasn't her fault.

Something about the way she's allowing her guilt to eat at her like some proliferating disease makes you want to snap her out of it. _Yeah_ , it's hypocritical because you still feel like you're dipping your feet into a shallow pool of your own guilt. You're not exactly drowning anymore, but the regret is still there, swinging by from time to time to remind you that you crippled a child.

You know it's much easier said than done; and it's a lot simpler to dole out advice than to apply it to your own life. But you try anyway. And in the end, it doesn't even matter because Amanda says 'no'. When you walk by her desk and send her an invitation for that overdue coffee so you two can talk (about how she's feeling or _whatever_ ), she gives you an excuse. She tells you she's got plans to meet an old friend.

Amanda pulls out a lipstick bullet from her drawer and covertly slips it into her coat pocket. Then, she leaves the squad room.

The suspicion bubbles to the surface when she disappears down the hall. You're convinced she's seeing someone and you talk yourself out of that pointed curiosity to find out who he is and what makes him so _goddamn_ special. You're not jealous. _God_ , at least you hope you're not. But you wonder if this guy knows about how much this freshly closed case meant to her, how much this guilt is picking her apart at the seams. You wonder if this guy is going to be there for her to give her the comfort and support she needs, but is too bullheaded to ask for.

The thought of her exposing that vulnerable side to some other guy makes you sick. And the more you think about it, the more your conscience jabs at you with images of your wife.

Does this constitute as cheating?

You're not sleeping with either one of them. For a hot minute, you thought that maybe you would re-explore that possibility with Maria, but you haven't really had a chance to be alone with her since the night she paid a visit to your hotel room. Ever since that night, your self-imposed celibacy had waned, giving way to your hunger for sex. But seeing Maria once every two weeks and hearing her voice on the phone doesn't do much to satiate that hunger.

Putting aside the physical aspect of your relationship, with Maria, there's a lot of history and a mutual understanding that you want to fix your marriage. Although, lately, it feels like you're moving at a glacial pace and, sometimes, it even feels like you're making things worse. But the point is, you're still trying. Whereas, with Amanda, you feel like you're gravitating towards her without the loaded effort of _trying_. And that's what's so fucking confusing.

"Where's Benson?"

At the sound of the familiar voice, you turn around to see Lieutenant Tucker talking down to a rookie officer. The kid, barely off the bus from the Police Academy, shakes his head, earning an annoyed look from his superior.

"Looking for Sergeant Benson?" you ask, emphasizing the title before the name. You rise from your chair as Tucker turns to you, his chin lifting and his eyes studying you with bold scrutiny. He's always been a prick, so you don't let his arrogance rattle your resolve. "She left an hour ago."

"Where to?"

"Home," you answer as if it should be so obvious. You glance down at the time on your watch; it _is_ eight in the evening after all. Tucker's jaw clenches and his eyes squint. What the hell is he even doing at the 1-6 at this hour looking for your sergeant? Every time IAB swings by, you have every right to be concerned. And with him looking for Liv, you instantly worry if she's done anything recently that would warrant a visit. But, as far as you know, she's been on the straight path, fulfilling all her duties and responsibilities as a commanding officer with no complaints from the brass. "You need something?"

"That's really none of your concern, detective." He mocks you by emphasizing your title, thereby pulling his rank. The corner of his mouth twitches and he scoffs, stepping aside before storming out of the bullpen.

It's odd for Tucker to come all the way here to see Liv on classified business. If he needed to reach her, he could have just called her up and made sure she was at her office when he came by. The only feasible reason he chanced it, hoping to catch her, was probably because she wasn't answering his calls. And the only reason Liv was purposely ignoring a call from IAB was because she knew whoever was on the other line was not seeking information pertinent to the job.

You feel as though you have the wind knocked right out of you. _Fucking hell._

Tucker is mystery man.

* * *

 _{you're in ecstasy without me  
_ _when you come down  
_ _I won't be around}_

Later that evening as you're shutting down your computer, you get a phone call from Liv. You almost don't want to answer just because you feel disappointed, frustrated, perhaps even betrayed. But you end up answering anyway because you're programmed to respond promptly when it comes to her. You can't make the same mistake you made last spring when you failed to protect her, when you failed to be her partner.

Her voice on the other line has a musical tone to it, and it fills your ears the moment your finger swipes the green icon. She's a bit buzzed and you can recognize it from those nights you lived on her couch, drinking wine and watching home reno shows on TV. She 'requests for your presence' at this bar close to Washington Square Park. You're about to say 'no thanks' when she hints there's something to celebrate.

And because you hate not knowing things, you leave your car at the precinct and take the Q train to meet your colleagues. When you arrive, Fin raises his beer and waves you over to their cozy booth. You only see the back of their heads but as you reach closer, you notice Cassidy's arm draped over Liv's shoulders, her head leaning into the crook of his neck and her hand pressing on his stomach. All your plans to come up here to pull her aside and confront her about Tucker dissolve out of your brain. You wonder if you look as dumbfounded as you feel. She smiles wide, her eyes sparkling with warmth and tenderness for her boyfriend.

Exactly how much has she had to drink?

It strikes you as odd how lovesick they look, considering the communication breakdown that's a constant fixture in their relationship. Liv did imply there was something to celebrate, so did she tell him? Did she talk to him about wanting to start a family? _No fucking way._

Something about it doesn't feel right. It must be some alcohol-induced euphoria to numb the kind of sadness that would have her entertaining the thought of flirting with the devil. Of all people, she chooses to detonate her relationship by using Tucker. And to make matters even more fucked up, he happens to be Cassidy's boss. Clearly, she hasn't been honest about those late nights she pretended to be working a case in Chelsea. Otherwise he wouldn't be looking at her like she hung the moon.

No one's making out or anything, but this is the most affectionate you've seen either of them with anybody. You know alcohol can loosen people's inhibitions, and perhaps it's the likely cause. But if you didn't know any better, you'd probably suspect someone slipped X into their drinks. They're laughing at their own inside jokes. He has a tendril of her hair wrapped around his finger, as he and Fin chat about the Mets. She's making eyes at him whenever she takes a sip of her glass of red. When they're both too lost in their own world, Fin nudges your shoulder. It's not just you. He's also keenly aware of the unusual behavior across the table; but he doesn't say a word so neither do you.

You grit your teeth and bear it (for now). Taking a long swig of your drink, you focus your attention on the muted basketball game on the big screen. But, then, he whispers something into her ear and a radiant smile appears on her face. He gazes at her with unbidden adoration. And all you can think of right now is that feeling in your gut that's telling you this is the calm before the storm.

You don't expect Amanda to show up. After all, she did tell you she made a promise to meet up with an old friend. But she arrives, not giving you much of a chance to ask her why she's here before she squeezes into the booth, forcing you in the middle between her and Fin. Her hair is in a messy ponytail, her makeup slightly smudged around her eyes. Her mood from earlier this evening has flipped a complete 180. Gone are the distress in her eyes and the restlessness in her bones. When she jumps into the conversation seamlessly, asking Brian about his latest tales of undercover work for IAB, it becomes clear that she's had a head start with the liquor.

There's a soft rasp to her voice and that Southern accent becomes more pronounced. She's a little more liberal with the hand gestures, too. You don't doubt that she met up with a friend and grabbed some drinks with them. But what would prompt her to leave them early to join the company of her colleagues? Apart from Fin, you don't think she really sees you guys as friends. _Yeah_ , you suppose, lately, you two have been hanging out after hours, but it doesn't feel much like a friendship when the job is pretty much all you talk about. Occasionally, there's a smattering of something personal but she has a wicked tendency of leaving you high and dry at the scent of an inquisition.

What is it with all these women in your life keeping secrets?

As the night wears on, you feel like you're floating outside of your body. You hear their voices, their laughter, and the easy banter that flows between everyone. You nurse your drink in your hand, take a sip, laugh on cue, and say a line or two about whatever's the current topic of conversation. But your mind keeps drifting in and out. You consider the scene across the table – a happy couple on the surface, but underneath the Band-Aid, there's a gaping wound that sorely needs to be addressed. Your ears pick up on the hearty laugh of the woman next to you. The scent of her perfume intoxicates your senses; it almost becomes too hard to breathe.

You excuse yourself and head toward the bathroom. As you're taking a piss, you clench your jaw when some jackass decides to stand at the closest urinal. There's plenty of space, but he insists on taking the one next to yours, disobeying the rules of basic decency. He makes the situation even more awkward when he drunkenly decides this is an appropriate time to initiate a conversation. He confesses he's been checking out the hot blonde who was seated beside you, and he asks if you're 'hitting that'. Ignoring him, you zip up your pants and turn on the faucet to wash your hands. Looking up to check the mirror, you see the jackass has his head craned back, his eyes meeting your reflection. "Man, if she ain't your girl, then you gotta hook a brother up."

You slam the door behind you and walk through the narrow corridor back to your table. A gaggle of girls dressed in skin-tight dresses and six-inch heels tumble out of the women's restroom. You back up against the wall to let them through. The door stays open for a moment and Amanda appears with a crumpled up paper towel in her hand. She tosses it into the bin, her eyes piercing yours. "Hey."

Your hand rubs the nape of your neck. "Hey."

"Uh, excuse me," says a woman trying to get into the bathroom. Amanda takes a step forward, allowing the woman to pass and closing the gap between you two. This is the closest she's been since that night on your stoop – the one you've tried to forget countless times, but somehow always finds a way of creeping back into your consciousness. You can smell the flowers in her hair, and you can see the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she's breathing. She has you cornered up against the wall, but she makes no effort to move even when the path is cleared.

"So, what's up with Liv and Brian?" She twists her mouth into a half smile.

You chuckle and shake your head. "I know, right?"

"It's weird. But it's nice seeing her happy," she says, chewing on her lip. And in that second, you feel struck by your conscience. All night, you've been questioning what was going on across the table because of your anger with her and your personal beef with Tucker. But what's with your self-centered sense of betrayal? It has nothing to do with you. Just because you feel disappointed and frustrated with her actions doesn't mean you stop caring about her. And as much as you don't _like_ the guy, Cassidy's proven himself to be dedicated to her healing and happiness. And if he's managing to do that now, then _great_.

"Yeah, good for her." You tilt your head to the side and study the knot on her brow, your eyes drifting to her exposed neck where you see a light purple bruise forming on the base of her throat. "Uh, so how'd it go with your friend?"

"Huh?"

"You said you were meeting someone for drinks. Didn't think you'd bail on them to show up for us."

"Don't be so self-deprecating, Amaro," she teases with a playful smile. "Uh, it was just a few drinks to catch up, but he had to be somewhere –"

"He?" Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach.

She tugs on her bottom lip, her lashes fluttering up slowly. "Yeah, is that a problem?"

The way she's looking at you, it's like she's kissing you with her eyes. The whisper of her voice, like candle wax, intimates she's flirting. But, then again, it could be the work of the alcohol in her system. Besides, what do you know? You've knocked down a few beers yourself and your head isn't at its optimum for overthinking.

You stand motionless and maybe it's because you don't want to fuck this up like last time. She takes control as she presses up against your chest. Your breath gets lodged in your throat and you feel suffocated under the thick, dingy air of the bar. But you don't care; not when she feels so soft and warm against your body. And before you can even send the 'no' signals, your fingers graze her hips. Her legs are already resting on yours, but she inches just a little bit closer, and digs a little bit deeper. And that warmth between your bodies spreads like wildfire, coursing through your blood and leaving no sensory nerve untouched. Her teeth bite into her bottom lip, followed shortly by a lick of her tongue to soothe the sting. You're not sure who sets it in motion – if she leans up or you dip your head lower – but you can feel her breath ghost over your lips. Until.

Fin shouts. "Yo! Rollins!"


	13. When You Were Young

**AN:** _Thank you to everyone who reviewed chapter twelve! I got a few reviews that made me want to kiss my screen, because I just love it when people *get* rollaro the way I do. It's like having that one friend who believes you and understands you when everyone else is skeptical (like the writers of this show, SMH). Anyway... Fin upset quite a number of you last chapter, but I promise he has a good (ok, maybe bad) reason for pulling a Carisi and interrupting their moment. I promise he'll be good from now on. This chapter is about transition(s) (sorta like the make-believe season 17 *cries delusional tears*). It's going to allude to Nick's protective personality and provide some background... so uh, trigger warning for child abuse. It's also going to loosely tie up some ends regarding Liv's saga with mystery man, so we have plenty of room to focus on Amanda when it's (finally) time for those Gambler's Fallacy chapters._

 _Chapter title and {lyrics} are from When You Were Young by The Killers. Please read, enjoy, and REVIEW._

* * *

 **Ruined Beyond Redemption**

 **13\. When You Were Young**

* * *

 _{you sit there in your heartache  
_ _waiting on some beautiful boy to  
_ _to save you from your old ways}_

You're so close to that January night, when the only warmth you could draw from was a kiss. Her back pressing into the iron bannister much like she has you now against the wall. The matchstick stroke of your lips on hers – igniting a flame that fizzles out as soon as you express your immediate regret. This time though, you don't even get that fleeting moment of comfort before you're thrust back out to the cold, like some discarded piece of trash.

"Yo! Rollins!"

Her palms push hard against your chest, gaining the leverage she needs to step back as if she's jumping out of her skin. Your fingertips brush off her hips, touching the abandoned space, before they fall back to your sides. She stands straight as a rod; her chest heaving as she sharply inhales. Her spooked eyes dart down to the polished concrete beneath her feet, like she just happens to be standing in a narrow hallway across a startled stranger. You barely have time to gather all your bearings before Fin turns the corner. He stops in his tracks and casts you both a puzzled look.

"What's up?" Amanda asks with a forced nonchalance that reinforces the ice wall between your bodies.

Fin cocks an eyebrow before he shakes his head. "You left your phone on the table," he says, revealing her iPhone in his hands. "It's been ringing off the hook."

She reaches for her phone, but Fin clenches his fist around it and pulls it back.

"Why's he calling you, Amanda?"

 _He?_

Just then – and very conveniently – the phone rings, lighting up the screen. A man wearing a fedora appears on the screen and a name flashes over the picture: Nate Davis. The muscles in your jaw tense the second your suspicions are confirmed. She's not just seeing someone; she's seeing the ex-boyfriend who has made a career out of preying on women seeking help for their addictions. Amanda stares at her phone in horror before she lunges forward to grab it from her partner's hands.

"Why's this jackass calling you? He giving you any trouble?"

Fin doesn't put up a fight and she easily pries the phone away. "It's nothing…" she says, smoothing over the situation unconvincingly. "Don't worry about it."

She walks past him and she throws a look over her shoulder – the first time she meets your eyes since you almost kissed. There's a flicker of regret that's become commonplace in your own reflection, but you don't know if she's looking at you that way because of what almost happened, or what didn't happen.

The phone rings once more and this time, she answers it.

You and Fin keep a watch on her until she maneuvers around the small crowd to step outside the bar. When she's out of sight, he turns to you with questions about the 'conversation' he thought he interrupted. You assure him it was nothing, just you and Amanda trading notes on the case against Hudson University's coaching staff. He crosses his arms over his chest and arches his brows, but you ignore the disbelieving look in hopes that he'll stop giving you the third degree. Thankfully, Fin is probably the least meddlesome person on the team, so it doesn't come as a surprise when he lets it go.

Still, while Fin didn't exactly walk in on you and Amanda in a compromising position, he's been a detective long enough to know something's off when two people are standing under dim lights in a suspended air of silence.

All you know is that you need to get out of here before you do something stupid like get yourself caught. Or say something to Liv and Cassidy that could potentially burst their transient bubble of happiness and affection. Walking back to the booth, you reach for your coat. Your company throws strange looks at you when they realize you're not sharing their plans of staying until the kitchen closes. You remember Cassidy's quip about how you're all too old and too tired to stick around for last call, so you all needed a more feasible benchmark.

"Gonna head home," you start. "Early day tomorrow; I'm driving down to DC with Gil." You catch Liv pressing her lips together in a forced smile – the same kind she uses when she's listening to a victim try to remain hopeful in the face of defeat.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, Cassidy surprises you when he blurts out, "Good for you, man." It's odd coming from him, but you suppose it's not that odd considering the strange and unexpected shift in their relationship. He rubs his knuckles against his jaw, pondering what you can only assume is your weekend plans. Then, he mimics something that your priest told you months ago, and something that neither you nor Liv probably expected out of his mouth in this lifetime. "Hope things work out with your family, Amaro."

Liv's eyes widen and blink slowly, her mouth falling open slightly.

"Uh… Thanks, man."

"Night, Nick," she says, forcing a weak smile. You tilt your head up at them and say your quick goodbyes before you head out of the bar; breathing in deep the moment the city air hits your face.

You've almost forgotten Amanda was out here taking a call until you walk to the edge of the sidewalk and see a plume of smoke in your periphery. She's not on the phone anymore, replacing one dangerous habit for another. Her hands shake just like they did earlier this week during the middle of your investigation. You take a step back, studying her for a moment, her back turned away and her eyes focused on the stretch of road in the distance.

"Rollins."

She whips around, anxiety firing on all cylinders.

Your unrehearsed plan is to go in and talk about what just happened in that hallway before you were interrupted. And _yeah_ , you kind of want to ask her about Nate, too; but you know it's a dumb idea to lead off with that especially after the last time, when she ripped you a new one in the bunks. But you don't have to worry about saying the wrong thing this time, because she doesn't even give you a chance to execute your plan. It doesn't matter, because she makes up her mind about you and takes your presence the wrong way. And as the embers of her cigarette hit the ground, the venom in her voice shoots out.

"Are you gonna get on my case too?"

Denying your interest in what, or rather _who_ , she's doing is an option you thoughtfully consider for all of two seconds. But she opens up the gates herself and invites you in, so you're not going to pretend to be unaffected. You're not going to pretend to be above that. Nate is a manipulative asshole who takes advantage of women when they're at their most vulnerable - when they're seeking help. He cheated on her and nearly implicated her at a murder trial. Amanda knows all these things about him; and the fact that she would let all of it slide is disappointing. The possibility that she saw him earlier this evening is depressing, because you know – and she should know – that she deserves so much more.

And for a split second, you imagine she deserves someone like you. But you take the thoughts back and repress them, choking them at the neck. You're too fucked up for someone like Amanda, who has enough of her own problems to deal with. You're both too volatile; you need someone stable, someone to anchor you down. Together, you would be like two warships heading straight for each other. Mutually Assured Destruction – that's what you'd call _whatever this is_ if it ever amounted to anything more than stolen glances and almost-kisses.

"Was he the friend you met up with earlier tonight?" you ask, the word 'friend' leaving a bitter aftertaste on your tongue.

Her mouth twists into a scowl. "Why do you even care?"

Tilting your head lower, you level with her so you can look her in the eye. She tries to avert her gaze, taking a long drag of her cigarette. "I'm not just going to stand by and let him hurt you again."

She laughs wryly, a puff of smoke billowing in your face. "Is that the only reason this concerns you, Amaro? Because your hero complex is on alert and you feel the need to protect this poor, helpless woman who makes terrible decisions when it comes to men?"

"Stop."

"No, just be honest with me for once." Her piercing eyes lighting up like a scorching blue flame. "Tell me why it bothers _you_." That last word punctuated by the sharp jab of her index finger to your chest.

"Because I can't keep doing this with you if you're seeing someone else."

" _This?_ " She throws her head back and roars in laughter. "Are you fucking serious? Last I checked, you're the one who's married, bragging to everyone in the entire department about how you're going down to DC to win back your wife… Saint Nick doing the right thing… When you know – and I know – that you're only keeping up appearances because you're too embarrassed."

"You don't know anything about that."

"Are you sure?" she asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because I remember a few nights ago, after you knocked back all those shots, and you told me you were scared you were getting Zara's hopes up."

You honestly don't remember saying that, especially with all the after-hours drinks blurring together. It's definitely not something you would say to Amanda – or anyone, for that matter. In fact, it's not even something you want to mentally tackle when you're sober.

"Look, Nick," she says, her eyes softening slightly. "If you were really serious about making your marriage work, then you wouldn't be looking at me the way you're looking at me now."

You close your eyes and turn away, choosing the cowardly way out.

"And that's why _this_ needs to stop," Amanda sighs. "We keep pretending this is innocent when we know damn well it's not."

You exhale, hard and heavy.

"Anyway, I need to go…" she trails off, "before Fin comes out here and hauls my ass back inside."

"Yeah… Amanda," you begin to say. "Take care of yourself, ok?"

She lowers her head with a smile. "Not that it's any of your business, but after I told him to stop calling, I blocked his number."

A smirk curls up at the corner of your lips, and you watch as she returns back into the bar. You walk toward the subway station, your pupils constricting at the burst of light underground. You suppose, not all ships loaded with gunpowder and headed toward each other have to end in a sea of flames. Somewhere along that path of mutually assured destruction, someone might step up to be the hero and call for a ceasefire.

* * *

 _{I know we can make it if we take it slow  
_ _let's take it easy  
_ _easy now  
_ _watch it go}_

The kids want Chuck E. Cheese, so they get Chuck E. Cheese. In spite of you and Maria's personal reservations about mixing arcade games with dinner, it's ultimately the kids' decision.

So far, it hasn't been that bad. You walked around the mall for two hours, killing time at the Lego store before the four of you caught the latest Pixar movie. Now, you're capping off the day with greasy pizza and whack-a-mole. It's a nice feeling seeing Gil and Zara joined at the hip on these rare occasions they're in the same place. You worried that your son, being three years older than his sister, would be averse to the idea of hanging out with her. But Gil is a great big brother – genuinely interested when she rambles on about Disney princesses, and patient with her when she doesn't quite understand the technique required in Skee Ball. Even Maria admits she's impressed with how polite he is; signing an informal truce when she tells you his mom did a great job raising him despite their circumstances.

You're sitting across Maria, watching the kids wait for tickets to stream out of the machine. Zara's eyes grow bigger as it churns out ticket after ticket, clapping her hands excitedly because she's that much closer to winning that stuffed bunny she wants to add to the zoo that's already on her bed. During dinner, the kids promised they would split the tickets in half, with Gil eyeing an action figure that's valued at 300 tickets. He said he's inclined to save up for it, asking if you can come back again tomorrow. Normally, one trip to Chuck E. Cheese in one weekend is about all you can take, but you're more than willing to make an exception. Luckily for you, you don't have to try to convince Maria because she's already made it clear she's too busy to join you on Sunday.

Saying it's her choice not to come might be unfair. But you just don't see how she allows her boss to get away with making her work on a weekend, knowing she's got a seven-year-old daughter to take care of at home. It's also really suspicious when her supervisor happens to be the guy she broke up with the same night she visited your hotel room. You try asking her about it – if he's giving her a heavier workload because he's holding a grudge on her – but she avoids the questions, telling you it's not the right time or place. Then, she warns you to stay out of it; because she claims to know you so well, and she knows you're just itching to confront this Colin McEvoy. But, honestly, she doesn't know you that well, because you have about zero interest in going up against her ex-lover.

There's nothing left to talk about as you've exhausted all the small talk earlier today. And since she doesn't want to talk about how her boss is screwing her over because he can no longer screw her, you two sit in silence. You focus on other things – your kids running around, their pockets jangling with tokens; the tepid cup of coffee you're nursing in your hands. Anything to distract you from the strangling sense of detachment from the woman across the table.

It's funny – in a sad, pathetic way – how one night with Maria could've potentially rekindled those old flames, but it just ended up burning the house down. Her fingers are tapping away on the glass screen of her phone; her eyes trained on whatever message or email is more riveting than your company. She doesn't even offer up any apologies or excuses. You try to imagine what's going through her head… if she's as much of a bitch as her face suggests. And the more time you spend with her, the more you realize those feelings ebbing away.

Regardless of the cold indifference, there's still a tiny trace of guilt picking at your conscience. You're thinking of another woman while being less than two feet away from your wife. On one hand, you feel like you're betraying your vows; and on the other, you feel like you're evening the score. And there's a manic thrill to it that's fucking terrifying, because the last thing you want to discover (at a Chuck E. Cheese, of all places) is that all this marital vindictiveness has turned you into a psychopath.

"Nick… Nick… Are you even listening?"

You blink hard and open your eyes to see Maria staring at you with an impatient look on her face. She points out that your mind seems to be somewhere else, and your first impulse is to pick a fight. You want to argue that she can say the same thing about herself; she's just being distant in the more socially acceptable form of being preoccupied with her phone. But you bite your tongue and keep yourself from firing back in a public setting. You know better than to fight in front of your kids (at least, most of the time you do).

"I noticed you're not wearing your ring anymore," she says, her eyes flitting down to your left hand curled around the ceramic cup. You follow her gaze and notice the absence of silver on your ring finger.

"You're not wearing yours either," you point out, ending the conversation. She sighs and rolls her eyes before she leans back on her chair and returns to the messages on her phone.

You want to tell her the reason you're not wearing your ring anymore is because you're done feeling insecure about the state of your marriage. That you're done putting in the effort if she's not going to do her part like she promised. Your pride wants to put up this front, so maybe she can stop assuming she's always got the upper hand. What she doesn't know is that you forgot you weren't wearing your ring. After crawling under the kitchen sink and trying to sort out the mess of your garbage disposal for the third time since you moved back in, you must've misplaced it. Looking at your wife, who doesn't seem to care about whether it's on or off your finger, you choose not tell her the truth. What does it matter anyway? It's not a real game when only one person is keeping up the charade.

* * *

 _{and sometimes you close your eyes  
_ _and see the place where you used to live  
_ _when you were young}_

You're eight-years-old, peering over your baby sister's playpen. Sonya is wailing, rivaling the noise in the room at the end of the hall. "Shhh…" You bring your finger to your lips. "Please stop crying, Sonya." But she doesn't stop. Her cries are getting louder, and her mouth is forming the word 'mama' but she can't let the sound out between her violent sobs.

Suddenly, the screaming from the other room ceases and your heart falls to the pit of your stomach as you hear the first blow. And another. And another. There's a pause, when you can hear the cry of pain that strains out of your mother. And then, there's another. And another….

Your lungs fill up with air as you look down at Sonya, who, at her age, is still oblivious to what's going on under your roof. Your hand brushes up against her hair to comfort her. Then, you bolt out of the room, running down the short corridor. Their door is shut and you remember the threats not to barge in when it's shut. _"Learn some respect, Nicky!"_ You try to turn the doorknob but it doesn't go anywhere. He probably wasn't drunk enough this time to forget to lock the door. You hear it again – the sound of knuckles connecting with the fragile bones on your mother's face. Her howls sounding off behind the few inches of wood separating you from the chaos. You need to save her.

In the hallway, there's a potted plant where you've hidden a spare key to their bedroom. No kid should have to worry about copying keys in case of emergencies; that's something responsible parents worry about. But you're not just some kid. Your fingers dig through the shallow soil and pick up the piece of silver before you thrust it into the lock. You push the door open and barge into their bedroom, your back heaving and your stomach lurching at the horror before your eyes. Your father is straddling your mother, his fist hoisted in the air ready to strike.

She sees you, even with the tears clouding her vision. "No, Nicky! Go! Please… go…"

Her hands cover her face so her words are muffled, but you understand what she's saying; and yet you stand there in defiance. She doesn't want you to see what he's doing to her. She wants to keep pretending everything is perfect, that this is something all wives experience at the hands of their husbands. And you might be in the third grade, but you're not stupid. You've seen your friends' moms with their unmarked faces and white smiles, and you know they don't come home to walk on eggshells just so they don't have to endure this kind of torture.

You grab his shirt from behind and try to pull him off her. But he is so much bigger, so much stronger. But your intrusion is enough for him to get his knees off the bed, freeing your mother so she can push herself up against the headboard. She cowers, too frozen in fear to come to your aid. Not that you'd let her. He turns around and grapples your shoulders, shaking you so hard you feel like you're wobbling in the midst of an earthquake. "What are you doing?" he yells, pushing you so hard against the wall that your head bounces off. He grips your chin, leans forward, and hisses, "What did I tell you about respect?"

He grabs the back of your head and shoves you down on the floor, your cheek burning against the carpet. He keeps his forearm pressed down on your neck and one of his legs bent over the back of your knees, so you can stop kicking and struggling out of his hold. You can't move. There's nowhere for you to go. You stop struggling, but you're not quitting; because as long as you're here and his anger is directed at you, he's not going to lay a hand on your mother. He digs his arm harder against your neck, making it difficult to breathe with your face driven down to the ground. You hear the sound of metal clinking and the slide of leather through the loops of his jeans. He pulls down your shorts.

The first whip stings and you feel your closed eyes pricking with a fresh coat of tears. You keep them tightly shut because the tears can't fall and they can't stain your cheeks. You can't show weakness. You can't give him the satisfaction of knowing he's hurting you. You're strong. You're a man.

The second whip is delivered with more force and you bite down on your cheeks, because, _no_ , you can't cry out for help. No one can help you. Then he takes the belt in the air and strikes you again, so hard that you feel it burn through your skin. You may not be able to sit comfortably for the rest of the week. You can sense the pain shooting up your spine, but you can't move. The ache becomes so unbearable that your survival instincts are threatening to cry for help and to resist. But you're stuck, forced to take the punishment of your shortsighted bravery. It's not until he tires himself out and loosens his grip, when you can start to crawl away. And, then, you open your eyes.

"Dad?"

Gil is standing over the edge of your bed, his eyes glazed with worry. Your chest rises and falls as you try to recover from the nightmare, which isn't such a strange occurrence when you're sleeping somewhere unfamiliar. Maybe you should've sprung up for adjoining rooms instead of getting one with two queen beds, because your son really doesn't need to know his dad still suffers from the occasional bad dream.

He reaches for the bottle of water on the nightstand and passes it to you. "When I have a bad dream, mom gives me water and stays in my bed until I fall asleep again."

You're halfway through the bottle, swallowing hard. "You have bad dreams?" This is the first you're hearing of this, and other than the immediate tide of concern you have for your son, you're also internally guilt-tripping yourself for not knowing. You're pretty sure this makes you a bad parent. "What about?" you ask, hoping Gil will mention the predictable monster in the closet, or the even more predictable villain from a Marvel movie. At least, with those scenarios, you have a chance of helping him through it.

He pouts and climbs on the bed, crossing his legs. "Sometimes I have nightmares about Uncle Roberto coming back…" Gil trails off. You inhale deeply at the mention of Cynthia's ex, Roberto Chavez. He's the lowlife who sent your child on drug runs long before you even knew you had a son who urgently needed your protection. "Before he went away, he called mom and promised he'd come back to get us... And I guess, I'm scared he'll be back and take us away from you."

You've been keeping tabs on Chavez, and rest assured, he's behind bars doing his bid up in in Rikers. There's no way you're allowing him to make good on that threat, even if he gets parole and gets out early for good behavior. You're going to do whatever it takes to make sure that piece of shit never sees them again. But Gil, even with your promise to protect him and his mother, still lives with that fear. And you get it. It's something that's embedded into his very nature, having been manipulated at a young age into selling drugs for a man he once trusted as a father figure. You understand the fear, but you hate yourself for not being there to stop it from taking root.

Gil straightens his shoulders and raises his chin, playing up his strength much like you did when you were his age. You wrap your arm around him and press a kiss to the top of his head. "I won't let anything happen to you and your mom. I promise."

* * *

 _{they say the devil's water  
_ _ain't so sweet  
_ _you don't have to drink right now  
_ _but you can dip your feet  
_ _every once in a little while}_

A plainclothes officer tackles and holds a professional athlete at gunpoint. The media is buzzing, eating it up and calling it another case of NYPD's racial profiling gone bad. This time, it doesn't fly out of the radar of national headlines because the man attacked is a second round draft pick for the Knicks. Internal Affairs is one of the first at the scene and, of course, Tucker calls in his boy, Cassidy. You make sure of that fact before you pop over to their apartment. Liv is a bit startled when you call from the lobby, but she buzzes you in anyway because she's under the impression you're here to talk about your issues and ask about her directory of therapists. _"I'm glad you finally came around, Nick."_

"What's going on with you and Tucker?" You cut to the chase and throw a metaphorical spear into the elephant in the room.

"Excuse me?"

"He came by the office Friday night, looking for you." She looks pissed off, realizing that you came to visit just to ambush her. But she needs to face it; you had to do it this way otherwise she would've never let you in had you been upfront with your intentions. It's better that you confront her here, while Cassidy's away, than at the squad room. "It's Tucker, right? He's the guy you've been seeing behind your boyfriend's back."

It takes her by surprise. Liv plants her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide open. She doesn't take a stand against your blunt accusation, but she doesn't deny it either.

"I wasn't seeing him –"

"—I knew it!"

She scoffs. "Oh, you proud of yourself for figuring it out, detective?" she snaps tersely. "The department pays you to investigate sex crimes, not my personal life."

"I wasn't deliberately trying to meddle, Liv. He came looking for you and wouldn't tell me what it was about. I put two and two together and assumed he must've been the guy you were sneaking off with."

"I wasn't sneaking off with anyone," she cries out in exasperation. You get that you and Liv might have different moral compasses when it comes to the definition of cheating, but you just can't wrap your head around her notion that going out for drinks with her boyfriend's boss and not telling him about it doesn't constitute as 'sneaking around'. She sighs and runs her fingers through her hair. "Those dinners with Tucker… I know they look bad, but I swear they started out as professional calls. But like I said before, we just started talking about things other than work… Like his family, and how his 23-year-old daughter just had a baby."

"And that's why you started thinking about starting a family?"

She shakes her head. "I've thought about it long before that. But I can't say seeing the pictures of a newborn and seeing that side of Tucker – the proud, sentimental grandfather – didn't help those thoughts along."

Your brows crease at the thought of Tucker shedding his reptilian scales and revealing his humanity. "W-wait… Didn't you say he tried to kiss you?"

"And I made it clear that we should keep things professional," she says in a serious tone, walking away from you and returning to the couch to resume folding her clothes.

"But you still went out to see him the night we closed the Capshaw case," you point out, careful about insinuating that she was stringing him along even after she had set the boundaries of their relationship.

"He was going to send Brian on a three-month undercover assignment in Long Island, and the timing made it seem like he was doing it out of spite. I met up with him that night to ask him to call it off, and he did."

"Just like that?" you say incredulously. "He just called it off without expecting anything in return?"

"What are you trying to say?" She narrows her eyes.

"I don't trust the guy. He's always got an ulterior motive, probably thinks you owe him for doing you a favor."

Her head drops down and she throws the sock back into the basket. "Ed – I mean, Tucker and I made a deal that he wouldn't send Brian on the assignment and he wouldn't disclose our secret meetings to him, if I agreed to keep doing what we were doing as _just_ friends."

"So he buys your friendship with blackmail? And you believe him? He tried to make a move on you, knowing you have a boyfriend… Who's to say that's not happening again?"

"Nick," she warns, but that only spurs you on to get into protective little brother mode.

"Do you want me to talk to him, tell him to back off?"

"No!" Her head whips up and her eyes burn into yours. "Absolutely not. You promise me you'll stay out of this," she warns. She pinches the bridge of her nose and gets off the couch. "I don't need you getting in any more trouble. The brass is already breathing down my neck, waiting for the next shoe to drop before they transfer me out of Special Victims… I can't afford to have one of my detectives on a rampage, threatening the head of IAB."

You sigh, defeated. "But someone needs to stop him."

"That isn't on you… I know you think the solution to everything is to get yourself involved and try to fix it. But you're just going to end up doing more harm than good." She places her hand on your shoulder, squeezing lightly as her eyes shine with sympathy. "Nick, I appreciate you looking out for me… But you can't always be the white knight. You just can't."


	14. From Eden

**AN:** _Hey! Before I start, thank you for the reviews for chapter 13. Y'all are great! After reading this, you might want to check out **Born to Die**_ , _an RBR companion one-shot written from Amanda's perspective, and **Hush**_ _, a multi-chapter fic of rollaro undercover. Thanks! :D :D :D_

 _As for this chapter... I thought once I got to Gambler's Fallacy it would be a piece of cake writing the chapter(s) because I planned on sticking fairly close to the episode. Turns out I HATE rewriting scenes. I'd rather come up with the stuff that happens in between. Still, I started it and I surged on through. But I hope Nick's super paranoid second person POV keeps things fresh even though you already know what to expect. I threw some curveballs in here to keep it interesting. Let me know what you think! Reviews are manna._

 _Chapter title and {lyrics} are from Hozier's From Eden. Please, read, enjoy, and review._

* * *

 **Ruined Beyond Redemption**

 **14\. From Eden**

* * *

 _{babe, there's something tragic about you  
_ _something so magic about you}_

It's Monday morning and you're called in before the bread is due to pop out of the toaster. You're going to have to take breakfast to-go and pick up some coffee on the way for you and Liv - your partner-slash-sergeant. You don't think you'll get used to seeing her as your superior anytime soon, especially when she's rolling her eyes every time Fin addresses her as 'boss'.

A push-in rapist was conducting wake-up calls in a college dormitory. The suspect assaulted one girl before he moved onto another potential victim, whose first reflex was to hit him over the head with her Intro to Biology textbook. It thwarted his plans but he managed to escape just before campus security arrived.

Details are still murky, with witnesses providing different descriptions of the assailant's race and stature. Returning back to the precinct, you hope to gather the statements you collected and make sense of it all. If physical descriptions match up, perhaps a call to the sketch artist is in order.

As you set your things on your desk, you spot Amanda across the room. A pen slides off the edge of the table but you don't stop to pick it up, choosing instead to walk across the bullpen. It's barely seven in the morning and she's already back, bright and early, from her weekend trip to the Canadian border.

"Good morning."

She looks up from the screen and throws a forced smile your way. Her blonde hair falls down in waves, sweeping over eyelids smudged with dark shadow.

"What's up with the hair?"

"Au naturel," she answers with a smirk – the kind that's been hiding secrets of her late-night activities. You've been under the impression that she was done entertaining that douchebag sponsor of hers, but that clearly doesn't seem to be the case. Would she have lied to you though?

Of course she would.

"You're in early." You make an observational comment that risks either an angry stare or an argument against the insinuation that she's incapable of being an early riser. Mentally, you brace yourself; but she doesn't bite. All she says is a simple 'yeah' before her eyes flit back to the screen, her finger clicking on the mouse.

"Niagara Falls that bad?"

She tilts her head to the side and scrunches up her nose. "Uh, you know what? We didn't make it. Frannie got carsick."

"Oh, poor girl."

You crane your neck to peer at the monitor, seeing the page opened to the Department of Motor Vehicles database. You've seen this before – fellow officers checking parking tickets and pulling favors for family and friends. It was a lot easier to get away with it back then, but not since the department required badge numbers and passwords just to access these pages. "DMV?"

"Yeah…" She plays it off like it's nothing. "I'm – you know, a friend of mine keeps getting tickets even though he parks in a garage so I'm just – I'm checking it out for him."

"Careful with favors… You know how IA can be. You know, they track everything." As you take a step back, you notice the shaky smile she returns and the deep sigh from her chest.

That agitation reappears and festers at the pit of your stomach. You're not even offended by the that she possibly lied to you about going away for the weekend; you're, honestly, just worried for her. If IAB finds out she's messing with DMV records, she could face more than just a scolding and disciplinary probation.

Amanda's sailing too close to the wind.

You're just not sure it's your place to be pulling down the sails for her.

* * *

 _{babe, there's something lonesome about you  
_ _something so wholesome about you  
_ _get closer to me}_

Amanda calls in sick with the flu. Her partner dials her number to see if she's doing ok, but all he gets is her voicemail. He calls for the fourth time all morning, grumbling something under his breath and slamming the phone onto the receiver. If it's enough to unsettle Fin, then you're not just making this shit up. It's like all the suspicions in your head are starting to stick to the board; the red and blue lights behind your eyes on high alert. It's too late now, and you can't help yourself anymore as you voice your concern to Fin.

"Amanda has been acting squirrelly in recent months, and it's only gotten worse since Monday."

You make it clear that it's not your intention to catch her red-handed, whether it's in an act that's illegal or just plain ill advised. But Fin thinks you're being paranoid. Still, the man has to admit that something is off. You get that he's loyal to his partner and he doesn't want to do anything to weaken that trust, but he needs to wake up and see the big picture. He could piss her off now and potentially save her from doing something that could cost her career, or he could wait it out for a rookie to come in and replace his partner.

"She shows up late in the mornings and stays until midnight to make up for it with OT. Now, she's calling in sick and her cell is unreachable."

Your blood runs cold as you recall the last time another member of the squad was out of contact. It was two days after William Lewis broke into Liv's apartment.

You're done making excuses. Liv can tell you all she wants that you can't always be the white knight, but it sure as hell won't stop you from trying. This is who you are – you're the guy who gets involved and saves people from danger either because they're too scared, too stubborn, or too close to giving up on themselves.

Fin agrees to pay Amanda a visit but only because he's genuinely concerned about his partner's health. He calls you the paranoid one, but he's the one who thinks she might've passed out on the bathroom floor.

He gets behind the wheel for the drive to Long Island City. He knows how to get to her place like he's driven that way hundreds of times, which, at first, you think is odd until you remember you lived on your partner's couch for a little over two weeks. It's a brownstone walk-up with a service elevator down the hall. Fin leads the way up the stairs until you reach the door to apartment 3E. With one hand holding the Styrofoam container of chicken noodle soup, he knocks on her door.

There's no answer. He calls her name only to be met with silence. "Rollins, it's Fin! If you don't open up, I'm gonna have to bust your door open and I ain't payin' for the damages if it turns out you're just messin' with me."

The door opens across the hall and an older woman in a floral duster peeks her head out. At her feet, a dog pokes her head through the gap and barks at the pair of strangers. "Frannie, shhh…" The woman glances up just in time to see the flash of an NYPD badge on your belt loop. "You two gentlemen work with Amanda?"

"Yes, ma'am," you answer. "Do you know where she might be?"

She pouts her lips and shakes her head. "I assumed she'd be at work. She leaves Frannie Mae here with me during the day…" The confused expression on her face shifts to terror, her eyes widening and her mouth falling open. "Oh dear, is she all right?"

Fin holds up his hand to stop the rising panic that's evident in her voice. "She's fine. We must've just missed her on the way to the precinct."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," he says, beginning to retreat down the hall. "Look, we're sorry for disturbing you."

You cast an apologetic smile at Amanda's friendly neighbor and reach down to pet the dog's head. She is wary at first, but eventually she tilts her head and closes her eyes. It's much easier to win Frannie over than her owner.

Chasing after Fin as he barrels down the stairs, you ask, "So what now?"

"What do you mean 'what now'?" We let this go."

"Man, are you serious?" you challenge back. "She lied about having the flu and she lied to her neighbor about being at work. She's clearly hiding something."

"And you wanna rat her out?" Fin narrows his eyes, his mouth twisting into a scowl. "Amaro, I know you and Rollins haven't always hit it off, but are you really going through hell and back just to see to it that she loses her badge? Because I'm not gonna be a part of this bullshit." He pushes the door open and heads straight for the car.

"Fin, it's not about ratting her out or wanting to see her get into trouble. Trust me; that's the last thing I want… I'm worried about her, ok? And if that means pulling her out of something dangerous even if she goes down kicking and screaming, then so be it."

"You hear yourself, man?" Fin calls out, stopping in his tracks to face you. "You know what, suit yourself. But you and I both know she's not gonna be happy with you after this. So don't say I didn't warn you."

* * *

 _{no tired sighs, no rolling eyes, no irony  
_ _no 'who cares', no vacant stares, no time for me}_

It's worse than you imagine.

Instead of completing the DD-5 on the juice delivery rapist who struck the college dormitory, you used NYPD resources to track Amanda's cell. The signal of her phone placed her in an abandoned warehouse near the Navy Yard Basin. At six o'clock and not a minute later, you drove down to Brooklyn and parked your car on a side street just off Flushing Avenue. Two hours passed with no movement; so you drove around the block in search of something to clue you in that she was actually inside. A beat up pickup truck, with a plush chew toy hanging off the rearview mirror, was parked not far from the warehouse. It was Amanda's car.

By nine in the evening, unmarked black vehicles started rolling up on the narrow street on the side of the warehouse. Men in suits stepped out, some carrying briefcases that you could only assume contained cash. You waited, hidden cautiously behind the tinted windows of your car, with your fourth cup of coffee in hand.

After midnight, a figure in the distance attracted your attention. Even if you couldn't make out the details on her face, you knew the blonde was Amanda. She was speaking to a bearded white man – average height and stocky build – dressed in a leather coat and hat. He looked up and down the street before he turned back to her, leaning in so close that the fog of his breath brushed against her face. It looked like he was giving her instructions the way he counted something out with his fingers. Amanda nodded before she got into her truck. And when the man disappeared back into the warehouse, that's when she buried her face in her hands.

The following day at work, when Rollins extended her sick leave for another day, you went and told Fin what you discovered during your unauthorized recon mission. He shook his head at you like a disappointed father, but the nature of your discovery was enough to spike his concern. He agreed that it was probably time you both disclosed this information to your sergeant. And so you did.

You expect Liv to act a little more dismayed and a little more troubled by the revelation that one of her detectives is going off the rails and jumping off the wagon. She and Amanda haven't always been the most amicable of co-workers, especially after the Lena Olson trial; but you don't expect her to be so nonchalant about it. She says she'll 'take care of it' but is oddly vague on the particulars. Fin puts up no protest and leaves, but before you can follow him out the door, Liv calls your name.

"Nick, I appreciate your concern. But I do have a problem with you tracking Rollins' cell and following her."

"Liv, I didn't want to take any chances, all right? After what happened with you." The words come out faster than you can rein it back in, and you catch that flicker of fear in her eyes. You don't want to remind her of the worst ordeal of her life, but you need her to understand that you're only doing this because you're worried for Amanda's safety. You don't know how much of this is just you being _you_ , and how much of it is reparation for your failure to protect your partner from that sadistic bastard, William Lewis.

You're not going through all this trouble of finding Amanda's whereabouts because you don't trust her or because you want to see her go down for being a pawn in some criminal enterprise. It's about keeping her safe and far away from people who are unquestionably taking advantage of her. But the longer it takes for you to convince Fin and Liv, the more you find yourself doubting your true intentions. "All right? I'm not stalking her."

"Well, it's funny you should say that. How are you and Maria doing?"

It's an unexpected question considering the topic of conversation is Amanda and not your ex-wife. For a second, you wonder if Liv can read your mind. Maybe she's caught onto your repressed interest for Amanda.

But that's not it. It's the word 'stalking' that causes Liv to shift gears and ask about your ex. "We're working it out," you tell her even though it sounds like a coerced lie. Maybe in the first few weeks since you last slept together, you tried working things out with Maria, but that quickly fizzled out. She returned to her routine at work and you became distracted with the prospect of something new with a co-worker.

"Yeah, Nick, the thing is, is that Maria has called me a couple of times. And she's worried about you," Liv says. "Is there anything you want to tell me about?"

"She called you? W – When? Why?"

"January – the night you went to DC to get her back. She called, crying hysterically… If I'm being honest, I think she might have been drinking," Liv explains, sounding a little uncomfortable. "Maria told me she was scared you were stalking her, and that she feared you would attack the man she was seeing –"

"—What?" You blink back in shock as your jaw drops open. "She's lying… I've never even spoken a word to this guy. W – Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"Look, I was going to tell you when you came back but when I asked how things went, you told me they were fine. That you and Maria talked and agreed to spend the following weekend together with Zara. I assumed you two patched things up since the phone call… I figured, if it was going to be a problem then she would call again, and she didn't… until, well, last week."

You raise a brow and cock your head to the side.

"She told me she was worried you were internalizing your problems and not seeking the proper help since the separation… and the shooting." She lifts her head, her empathic eyes agreeing with the concerns of your ex-wife. "She mentioned that you've been acting strange lately. Every time you go down to DC, you seem impatient and quick-tempered; like you're frustrated that your relationship can't be fixed right away and… You know what, it's not my place to tell you this," Liv says with a shake of her head. She casts you a look of commiseration before she sighs deeply. "This is a conversation you need to be having with her."

"I'm sorry she pulled you in." You hold your hands up as you head toward the office door. "She won't need to call you again."

"Good," she says. "And, Nick, keep away from Rollins."

"Yeah, sarge."

* * *

 _{honey, you're familiar like my mirror years ago  
_ _idealism sits in prison  
_ _chivalry fell on its sword}_

"You called Olivia? Damn it, Maria, she's my boss now!"

"Nick, I can explain –" Her voice is struck with panic, scrambling to atone for her mistake. "Ever since that night in your hotel room, I feel like you've been in a rush to get our marriage back to where it was two years ago. You're coming down here every weekend… Zara's telling me about you promising her that soon she'll be moving back to New York. It's just - It's too much too soon."

You can't believe what you're hearing. The part where she says you're in a rush to reestablish your marriage is stuff she's pulling out of her ass. And she shouldn't even have a problem with you going to DC every weekend, because you both agreed at the start of the separation that you would be able to see Zara whenever you wanted. You had a mutual understanding that you would never use your daughter against each other in the divorce. Maria can't just change her mind now that she finds it all too overwhelming. "If you're worried about me, then you tell me. Don't involve the people I work with… You don't see me calling your boss and telling him about our marital problems, now do you?"

"Stop."

"Why? Because you're sleeping with him?"

" _Was_ ," she groans into the phone. "I wasn't lying to you when I told you it was over."

"Yeah, but you still told Liv you were scared I was going to stalk him and kick his ass."

"That was before I broke things off! And, yes, I admit that was wrong… I wasn't thinking straight and I shouldn't have called Olivia. I'm sorry."

"What about the other call? Huh? The one you made last week?" you ask, releasing a heavy breath. "How am I acting strange? Because I drive down there to spend time with my daughter? Because we both agreed we'd give this another shot and see if it's still worth fighting for? What is it that I'm doing that makes you think I'm rushing things, huh? Tell me because I have no fucking idea what you're talking about."

"This is why I didn't tell you," she sighs. "I knew you would flip out."

"You know, Maria, for someone who works in communications, you really suck at communicating with your husband. You make assumptions on how I'm going to react to something before you even tell me what it is; and then you wonder why I can't trust you. This! This is why!"

"I looked into your credit card statements!" She blurts out. "The joint account that was only supposed to be for the house… I noticed you were spending a couple hundred dollars a week at a bar close to your precinct."

"Maria, that card is under my name. You have no right –"

"It's still joined to my account," she says. "You ask me why I'm worried about you. This is why… I feel like you're taking this divorce really hard, and coupled with the shooting, I just feel like you're carrying a lot more on your shoulders than you can handle. You're refusing to get help… You're refusing to let me help you… I'm scared you might be developing a drinking problem."

The only reaction you can muster is a bitter laugh that somehow gets lodged in the back of your throat.

"I don't have a drinking problem. And I'm not taking the divorce any harder than you are, so please don't flatter yourself."

"Nick, this isn't a game, ok? I'm not trying to fight you. I just want you to get some help because you're dealing with a lot of traumatic things that you refuse to acknowledge. You just want to pile on the work and all the horrifying things you have to deal with in that job, and then pretend you're fine… that everything's perfect. Honey, I just want you to talk to someone before this gets out of control."

"What gets out of control?"

"Your temper, Nick… You think you're strong enough to ignore how much your job has affected you… _ruined_ you. I mean, look at all the insane things you've had to deal with – your captain being framed for murder, your partner being abducted. What's next? Am I supposed to sit here and wait for the cops to show up at the door to tell me you've been arrested… o - or killed?" She chokes on her own voice and you hear a small sob from the other line. "You think you're strong enough to get past all the things you have to see at work. But I know you… I know how you can't let go of things. One day, all that pent up anger at the world is going to boil over. And I can't even begin to imagine how much worse it'll be if you continue down this road."

"What road?" you demand. "Me getting a drink with a couple colleagues on a Wednesday night?"

"Don't pretend that this is normal behavior for you, Nick. You've never been one to drink this much… It all just seems so timely after the shooting."

"What do I have to do to make you believe me?"

"The therapist I was seeing in New York – the one who diagnosed my PTSD – he also deals with addictions. I think it would be good for you to see him."

"Addiction?" you scoff. "No way."

"Nick, it might not be that way now, but you don't want to wait around until something awful happens… Your father used to get so violent when he was drunk. I just don't want Zara to see that side of you."

You shake your head. Nicolas Amaro would get violent regardless of his blood alcohol count. But Maria had a point; the few times she'd seen his father lose his temper was when he had too much to drink. It was under the influence that he was more likely to cause a scene or swing a fist at someone's face.

In the middle of your Uncle Anthony's funeral service, you remember how your Papi got into a physical altercation with Anthony's lawyer over the deed to his business. Then, there was Zara's second birthday. Your father showed up drunk to a kids' party and threatened the magician because he wasn't impressed by his tricks. You took him inside and told him to leave; and by the end of the night, you were at the other end of his fists. That night was mostly a blur but you do remember the vivid lights of the ambulance parked on your street and the pool of blood seeping into the living room carpet.

"Are you saying that I would hurt you or Zara?" There's a foreboding stillness on the other line. "Maria, do you really think I'm capable of doing that?"

"I just – I thought that part of our lives was over, but… I don't know. I could be wrong."

* * *

 _{innocence died screaming, honey, ask me I should know  
_ _I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door}_

Beatriz Amarante, the wife of a Brazlian diplomat, was raped in the consulate. When high-profile names are involved in a place that is supposedly secure, the first suspects are people with access. The list is short and starts with the husband.

Nestled in a high priced neighborhood, you were lucky the building across the street had surveillance. Rollins, who's back at work, was in charge of going through the tape, speeding through it in haste and finding nothing.

You got a call from CSU hours later, inquiring about an elimination DNA sample that was dropped off by a detective from your precinct. The CSU tech said information on the file wasn't filled out completely and she wanted to make sure that the DNA did indeed belong to a man the wife was having an affair with – a sample that would rule that person out from the rape. This was the first you were hearing of an elimination sample, and you checked with Fin just to make sure this wasn't an oversight on your part. He looked at you, confusion marring his features. You picked up the phone and asked the tech if she remembered who dropped off the sample; and that was when she told you it was Detective Rollins.

Fin called your attention to show you something on his computer. He was checking on the surveillance footage from the building across the street and he stumbled upon something interesting. Two nights ago, Amanda was outside of the Brazilian consulate, steering an inebriated Marcelo Guarana into his home.

Later that day, you're tasked to pay a visit to evidence lockup to check surveillance tapes of who might have signed out a gun pertinent to your investigation. The officer in charge informed you that it was a Detective Megan Wheeler, but it took you less than two minutes to figure out that she retired four years ago. You're rendered shocked and speechless when you rolled back the footage and saw Amanda hiding under a baseball cap and signing out the gun.

She withheld, tampered with, and stole evidence all within the span of three days.

It was beyond control. Fin finally agreed that something needed to be done to stop her. You two went to Liv's office to tell her about your discoveries. And with all the damning evidence you had of Amanda's activities, you expected your sergeant would blow a gasket and demand to see her right away. But Liv completely blindsided you and Fin when she made clear instructions not to tip Amanda off, to just pretend everything was normal.

Liv doesn't get it. She doesn't understand how deep into this world Amanda has sunk into, how she's putting her in even greater harm by not telling her to turn herself in. You can't just sit on your hands and wait for the whistle to blow on her.

These guys – this Irish gambling ring or whoever the fuck they are – are using her as collateral, forcing her to commit crimes because they're hanging something over her head. She probably owes them, and that's on her. And she probably made one bad decision after another, but who's to say it wasn't just a domino effect in an attempt to save her skin? Anyone else in her position, spiraling out of control, would be struggling to scramble their way out this mess.

You just can't wrap your head around Amanda willfully doing all _this_ without a proverbial gun to her head. She wouldn't fix a rape case, would she?

This is not who she is….

* * *

 _{babe, there's something wretched about this  
_ _something so precious about this}_

You don't know exactly what Fin says to convince Liv to tell Amanda she needs to turn herself in to IAB. You could sit there and speculate all night but neither one of them will ever confirm your hunches. They arrange to meet with Rollins at an Italian bar not far from the Brooklyn Bridge. Liv says it's best if you all don't overwhelm her so she advises you – _no_ , more like warns you – not to come.

It's probably the worst thing you can hear because feeling worthless just makes you want to overcompensate, even if it means doing something incredibly stupid.

You sit in your car, warming your hands on the air vents. You're not exactly sure what brings you back to this side street off Flushing Avenue or what sort of plan you have ready to set in motion, but you're there and you're waiting. Outstretched shadows appear under the lampposts of the alley. Dark figures weave in and out, seconds spanning into minutes. You don't know what to expect, even from yourself, but you know the face you're waiting for.

A black sedan pulls up and parks along the side of the curb. A man with slicked back hair and a salt and pepper beard steps out of the vehicle. He's wearing the same long, black coat from a few days ago.

You open your door and approach the man, gears turning so fast in your head you can see the sparks behind your eyes. The man's head is down as he fumbles with keys in his gloved hands.

"Excuse me."

He turns around, his brows furrowing. "Do I know you?"

Your strides don't slow down as you get closer. Then, you employ as much force as you can in your fist as you strike straight for his gut. He doubles over, his knees buckling and hitting the ice on the ground. You pull him up by the collar and get so close to his face that you can smell the tobacco on his skin. "Listen to me. You stay away from Rollins."

Shoving him back down on the ground, you start to walk away, watching his pathetic form sink to the pavement. He leans against the car and spits, wiping the corner of his mouth with his sleeve.

"You the boyfriend? Huh?"

Your eyes blink back, mouth falling open at the brazen assumption. You want to answer him and tell him you're not the boyfriend. But what good is it going to do? Why are you even doing this? Your intentions are to keep her safe; but how far are you willing to go and how reckless are you willing to be to make that kind of commitment? You're letting your heroic impulses take over before you've even had a chance to really think this through. You don't even know who this man is… You don't even know what he's capable of doing to you… to Amanda….

"She's not half bad." His pale eyes darken into something so sinister. "Once you get past the used part."

Gritting your teeth, you clench your fists and dig your fingernails into the palm of your hand. You take a step forward and watch his mouth curl into a smirk, as if he's challenging you to take another shot. Your first instinct is to lunge at him and beat the living shit out of him until he bleeds to death. But you immediately shut down that voice inside your head, egging you on to take a hit, instigating you to act like a man.

It all becomes too much. Too _fucking_ much.

You rush back to your car and thrust the key into the ignition. You peel out of there so fast, your fingers still trembling, your breaths still coming out ragged. Everything's in such disarray and you can't think about anything except the sound of his voice calling her 'used'. It's like you have tunnel vision as you're speeding through the streets and breaking one traffic law after another. There's one more thing you need to do tonight and it can't happen soon enough. _God_ , you need to see her. You need to tell her you fucked up… He's going to pay back in spades by hurting her… She can't go back there… You can't let Amanda go back there…

Or else her blood is in your hands.


	15. Cochise

**AN:** _Thank you, thank you, and thank you again for the lovely people who take the time to leave a review, no matter how short or long. I appreciate every single one of them. I said on twitter that I'd have this up by tonight, and I'm cutting it close. I even skipped TGIT to get this update up; but damn it, I'm itching to watch HTGAWM right now. I hope you like this chapter. Let me know if you do or you don't._

 _Chapter title and {lyrics} are Cochise by Audioslave. Please read, enjoy, and review!_

* * *

 **Ruined Beyond Redemption**

 **15\. Cochise**

* * *

 _{and so I drink to health, while you kill yourself  
_ _and I've just one thing that I can offer  
_ _go on and save yourself, and take it out on me}_

Your gas is running low, the orange light flickering on the dashboard. It's like a ticking time bomb – an allegory of her life up to now.

Dead weight in an ill-fitting suit traded in for a sweet-faced, sharp-tongued detective from down south. Even though she came in wet behind the ears, she was more skilled and more competent than some of the guys who swore into the department the year she was born.

You both came in shiny and new, in the manner of unwanted reminders of unavoidable change. Your eager smiles stood out against the fog of loss that hovered over the 1-6. Although the nice ones, like Munch and Fin, assured you had no shoes to fill, you both knew acceptance and respect weren't for the taking without proving yourselves first. And she did. She had risen through the ranks with her compassion for the victims, underestimated intelligence, and near-perfect aim.

But was her time running out?

An Italian flag is mounted on the window above a neon sign that flashes an invitation. _Drink until we've stolen your wallet and your sobriety_. As you get closer to the bar, the door is pushed open. She's right there, bracing herself at the threshold and letting out a heavy breath. Pulling out her phone, she types as she makes strides in your direction, not a care in the world for any obstructions that might be in her path. Including you.

"Amanda."

She looks up, hair falling over her eyes. She shoves the phone back into her coat pocket. Tucking the stray tendrils behind her ear, she turns her head back to the bar. "If you're looking for them, Liv and Fin are inside –"

"—I'm here to see you."

"Look, they already talked to me and I agreed to turn myself in first thing in the morning." You take a step forward and she holds her hand up, hovering it over your chest as if to stop you. "I don't need to hear it again. Not from you."

"I'm not here to give you the same spiel, but, wait - did you say tomorrow morning?" That wasn't the plan. She was supposed to turn herself in tonight, and if she did as scheduled then you wouldn't have to worry. You wouldn't have to feel as guilty as you do now.

One arm crosses across her body to clasp the other arm. She chews on her lip as she stammers, "I – I have to figure out what to do with Frannie."

"You're still lying?" you scoff. The rest of the squad has her figured out and she's still acting as if there aren't any serious consequences to her actions. "Christ, Amanda, you're not thinking of going back to the gambling club, are you? You have to listen to Liv. Turn yourself in tonight and tell IAB those guys were blackmailing you. The sooner you sort this out, the less guilty you'll look."

"I swear I'm not lying to you. I'm not going anywhere… I really need to figure out where my dog is gonna stay."

"She can stay with me. Problem solved," you tell her, throwing your arms up in the air.

She rubs up her arm and lifts her shoulders to her ears. "I – I don't know. Nick, I really have to go home." She elbows past you. Grabbing her by the wrist, you stop her. She looks over her shoulder and sends you a cold stare. "Let. Go. Of. Me."

You heed to her request, unraveling your fingers, but you narrow the distance. "I know what you're thinking. You're going to go back to that warehouse to try to figure a way out. But there is no other way. Not after you've already been advised to turn yourself in by your sergeant." The scowl on her face deepens, mirroring the slow burn of her eyes. "This club manager, Declan O'Rourke – you think you can trust him to protect you? He's what got you deep into this mess. Just – Amanda, don't go and meet with him."

"Shit!" Her hand flies over her mouth as she stares at you with wide eyes. "Nick, what did you do?"

Your heart starts beating against your ribcage, your stomach twisting in knots. "I fucked up." Wrapping your hand around the nape of your neck, you stare down at the ground. There's a crack on the sidewalk, like a geological fault line that you wish would divide and drag you down its ceaseless void. Being the one to apologize is not how you imagined this turning out. "I'm sorry. I didn't know what I was thinking. All I wanted to do was tell him to stay away from you –"

"You talked to him?"

"Yeah," you say; your response sounding more like a dubious question than an answer. "And I sucker punched the guy."

"Oh God." Amanda smacks her palm across her forehead. She turns around slightly and looks down the street and through the bar window. You don't know what she sees, but she grabs your arm and pulls you between the buildings into a darkened alley. "Why'd you do it?"

"Why?" you ask rhetorically. "Because he's using you… Blackmailing you for whatever reason." Running your hands through your hair, you release a tired sigh. "Why I punched the guy, I don't know. I guess I was being shortsighted when I was just trying to look out for your safety. I didn't think that far ahead… I didn't think that I was putting a target on your back." Your breaths are starting to feel shallow as you're trying to rationalize your actions to her (and to yourself). Under the dim light filtering through the alley, it's hard to see her reaction. But the soft blue in her eyes catches the glow of the streetlamp, and you swear to God, you catch a glimpse of a teardrop. "Amanda, I'm sorry. It didn't cross my mind, until after, that threatening him would give him more reason to hurt you."

"He won't hurt me," she says, apathy laced in her voice. "Don't worry about me –"

"—How can you say that? This man has you fixing a rape case… And then he said something about you being used – What the fuck did he mean by that?" You reach out in the dark, your fingertips brushing the wool sleeve of her coat. She doesn't resist. You just want to know she's standing right there in front of you, because if you can see her and feel her then, rest assured, she's safe. For now. "Please tell me he didn't do what I think he did."

Her hand presses on your chest, calming your heart that's been beating like a hammer on a deadline. Her voice is low and soothing. "Hey, it's ok. He didn't touch – He didn't hurt me." There's a hesitation when she tells you – a break in her voice and a pause in her speech. She lowers her head, so all you can see is blonde hair falling like a curtain over her face. "Everything will be fine."

"I don't think you understand how serious this is." You don't mean to, but adrenaline is coursing through your veins and you end up shaking her. "Amanda, you could go to prison."

"Hey, hey…." Her other hand flies up to your cheek and she forces you to look her in the eye. For everything that's happening to her right now, it's weird how calm she is. How she's the one putting on the soft pedal for the sake of your paranoia. It makes you think there's something more and you haven't quite figured it all out. She has a plan. You're not sure what it is but you think it involves making these imminent charges disappear, making _herself_ disappear. It wouldn't be the first time a Rollins sister became a fugitive. "Nick, you have to trust me."

"Trust you?" Your head rears back, jerking out of her grasp. "I'm here because I screwed up and possibly put you into even greater danger. I'm here to warn you not to go back there, and make sure you don't end up in a worse situation than you are now…. I admit; most of this is my guilt talking. But for Christ's sake, how can you expect me to trust you after all your lying?"

"I – I know. I understand," she stutters, swallowing hard. "I know I lied to you and Fin and Liv," she adds. "But you have to trust me when I say things aren't as bad as they seem. I have someone watching my back."

"What are you talking about? That guy Declan?"

"I can't say."

"I can help you, but you have to tell me what's going on," you plead with her, reaching out again for her arm. She backs up, taking a couple of steps until her back nearly hits the opposite building. "Amanda, promise me you'll stay away from him…. I don't know what he said to make you think he's watching your back; but he doesn't have your interest in mind. He's only out to save his own ass."

"If it all goes to plan, everything will make sense tomorrow," she says cryptically.

"If you're thinking about running –" you start, "—Amanda, don't make this any worse."

"I'm not running," she cries. Taking a deep breath, she slowly looks up to fix her eyes on yours. "Stop freaking out."

You throw your hands up in the air and shake your head. "How could you not be freaking out right now?"

There is no time to freak out. Not when Amanda is standing three feet from you one second, and the next, her mouth is on yours. Her lithe body leaps across the space to push you hard against the brick wall; she molds into your contours as she stands between your legs. Delicate hands smooth on your cheeks. It takes you a few seconds to realize this is the present, and not some ingrained memory of one January evening. Her lips part slightly, inspiring you to return the kiss. And you do.

Both arms curl around her waist, one hand sliding up the length of her spine to settle on the nape of her neck. She groans into the kiss as your fingers press on the base of her scalp. Your tongue skims her lower lip, tasting the faint flavor of honeyed whiskey.

The momentum picks up as she slips her tongue into your mouth, darting in as if exploring before dueling lazily with yours. And even if she's right there in front of you, breathing you in and melting into the kiss, you're already craving her. She slides her hand down your jaw, your cool cheeks missing the warmth of her skin. Light touches of her fingers trail down your neck, onto your shoulders where she grips them tight. Her teeth graze on your bottom lip, and you can feel that mischievous smile embracing your own.

With your arm around her waist, you pick her up and push her against the wall. She squeals in surprise but never breaks contact, holding onto you with one leg loosely wrapped around your hip. Bones collide as your bodies are brought closer together. A burning desire coursing through your blood; heat flowing down south. There's a cloud of lust in your brain, and you can't seem to connect the dots between your moment of hysteria and the split second she kissed you.

It's just you and Amanda making out in a dark alley. As surreal as it is, your senses have never felt more heightened. She digs her heel a little deeper into the back of your thigh, and she brushes up against the tent forming underneath your slacks. On the verge of breathlessness, a gasp escapes her lips. You lose her kiss to follow a searing path down her jaw, her neck, her collarbone peeking above her blouse.

"I can promise you –" she begins to say, stopping when your tongue dips into the base of her throat, "—I'll be fine."

With one hand leaning on the wall for support, you pull your head back to look at her with searching eyes. It's the first time you're really seeing her since she jumped you and kissed you. Her face is flushed; her lips are swollen pink. Her eyes are a deeper shade of blue than you remember; pupils dilated in spite of the shadows surrounding you. "How can you be so sure?"

She doesn't answer the question. Just angles her head to kiss you again, this time harder and hungrier. You can't blame her; this feels addictive. She's addictive.

"Answer –" She slides her tongue between your parted lips before you can get a word out. "—Me."

"Stop." Her hand glides from your shoulders to your hair, her fingers running through the waves. She pulls harder when you try to ask her again. Her mouth leaves yours only to swiftly clamp over it with a free hand. Dragging her lips to your ear, she tugs on your earlobe with her teeth before she whispers, "What if I said the color of the day is orange."

You nearly drop her back down on the ground; the only thing holding her up is her back, which is pushed up against the wall. "Wait, you're UC?"

"Yes, with Declan," she admits, chewing on her lip. Her voice is quiet as a mouse but her eyes are so intense and honest as they pierce through yours. "I can't talk about it until it's done. I'll explain everything then; but you can't say a word."

"Ok, but –" She cuts you off with another kiss. This is the kind of interruption you could really get used to. Even when you feel powerless in the face of it.

"Shhh…" she murmurs as she begins to part from your lips, pressing close-mouthed kisses while untangling her leg from around your hip. She brushes softly against your cheek one last time before she separates completely. Running her fingers through her disheveled hair, she clears her throat. "I have to go."

* * *

 _{I'm not a martyr, I'm not a prophet, and I won't preach to you, but here's a caution  
_ _you better understand, that I won't harm your hand  
_ _but if it helps you mend, then I won't stop it}_

Amanda was working undercover. For how long, you don't exactly know. It doesn't matter because, according to the powers that be, that part is classified information. Your commanding officer knows more of the details, but you know she was only given a vague and finessed account of how Declan O'Rourke – or rather, Declan Murphy – recruited Amanda Rollins as an undercover operative. You can make assumptions about her relapse and the extent of her partnership with Murphy all you want, but in the end, it doesn't make a difference. You're asked to go back to work and move along.

Even though undercover assignments have a dedicated section in your work history and you should be more forgiving, there's still that stab of betrayal festering in your chest. She was working you. Her lies were part of an elaborate attempt to keep the investigation under wraps. You've been in similar situations; you get it. She was just doing her job. But you can't pretend it doesn't mess with your head. You can't act as if this doesn't shake the trust you have in her.

At least, you're not taking it as hard as Fin.

He's furious, which isn't a mood you normally witness in the composed detective. As her partner, Fin has every right to feel this way because, arguably, she played him the most. He came to her with the intention of helping her out, and she took his money and assured him it was nothing more than being behind on debt repayments. When Liv told you that morning what had happened and how Amanda was now doing a tour of questionings with NYPD, Manhattan Vice, and IAB, it was Fin who stormed out.

Maybe there's more to it that can justify the sense of betrayal that's common ground between you and Fin. But men are simple. It's really all about being the only two people in the team left out in the dark. It stems from the moment you were led down this worthless pursuit of securing Amanda's safety, when, actually, she was shielded all along. Your egos are bruised; it's as simple as that.

Fin looks up from the paperwork on his desk and exchanges a brief glance with you. He leans back on his chair and studies the two men entering the squad room. It's Tucker and Cassidy – the dynamic duo.

Tucker stops midway through the bullpen and turns to his protégé. "Perhaps it's best you sit out on this meeting on account of your relationship with Sergeant Benson."

"This is about Rollins though," Cassidy begins to protest, while still maintaining that tone of professionalism. "Professional boundaries are up; you don't have to worry about a thing."

"I understand. But in my discretion, I believe it's in everyone's best interest if you sit this one out." Tucker doesn't stand around and wait for a response as he heads straight for Liv's office, without even the courtesy of a knock on her door.

Cassidy watches on, scratching the back of his neck while descending on the unoccupied chair across from yours. It was part of Liv's old desk before she got bumped up to Captain Cragen's old office – now a secret meeting place for the shifty asshole slowly coercing her into cheating on her boyfriend.

Speaking of the boyfriend, Cassidy picks up a pen and clicks it several times before the boredom kicks in, and he shoots it back into the cup. "Hey, Fin, you missing Munch yet?" he asks and Fin arches a brow in confusion. Cassidy chuckles, rubbing his hand over tired eyes. "You got to give it to your partner though. Rollins keeps things interesting around here."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He looks at you, wide eyes and mouth slightly open, as if wondering why you've chosen to burst in uninvited. "Easy, Ricky Ricardo." He holds his palms up like he's trying to calm down a rabid dog. Tilting his head to the side, he studies you with squinted eyes. "You know, I'm surprised to see you're so quick to defend Rollins."

"I'm not defending her."

"You sound defensive to me. Does he sound defensive to you?" He asks Fin, who merely grunts in return. Cassidy licks his lips and leans in, his volume dropping. "She lied to you two about working UC, led you on this wild goose chase after some crooked Vice agent… I'd be mad, too. I mean, Fin is cool as ice. He's mad at her now, but he's gonna get over it by tomorrow… You, Amaro – you surprise me."

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. "I get it. You're bored because your boss ordered you to sit out here while he met with Liv. No need to be a jackass because you weren't invited."

As you begin to stand up and head for the break room, where you can be assured that you'll be left alone, Cassidy makes another needless gibe. "Anger management must be working for you then."

Planting your hands on the table, you lean over. "What is it now, huh? You on the outs with Liv again? So you need me to be the punching bag for your stupid jokes?"

"Knock it off." Fin shakes his head.

"Stay out of my relationship," Cassidy grumbles.

"A little hard for me to do that when Liv would rather talk to me than to you." It fires out of your mouth like a cannonball, and the look on his face confirms that you've struck a nerve. He clenches his jaw and he curls his fist on the surface of the desk. Instead of stopping there, the expression on his face feeds your next cutting remark. "Hey, maybe if you weren't gone for weeks at a time, things would get better for you guys. Just an idea."

"Shut the fuck up, Amaro. I don't have to explain myself to you."

"No you don't," you say, "but you owe it to her."

"You think I enjoy going on these assignments? You should know what working UC is like," he tries to explain. "Tucker's sending me out on these jobs so I can work my way back up –"

"Tucker," you chuckle wryly, pointing in the direction of your sergeant's office. "You ever ask yourself if Tucker has an ulterior motive?"

"What are you saying?"

Fin groans and glares at you and Cassidy. "Do I have to bring you two dumbasses outside to settle this? Because I ain't stopping either one of you if you end up killing each other."

"Nah," you say. "It's cool."

"No, it's not," Cassidy argues, his eyes firmly fixed on yours. "What the fuck was that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." You shrug as you sit back down on your desk, rifling through the stack of DD-5s that need to be filled out. "Just something to think about. Maybe you can ask your girlfriend about it."

He pushes his hands against the desk and rises out of the chair. Walking around to your table, he bends down and gets close to your face. "I'm dead serious, Amaro. Spit it out."

Turning your head, you lift your chin so your eyes are level with his. "I'm not gonna spell it out for you, man."

"Everything all right out here, detectives?" A stern voice breaks through the thick fog of tension and animosity. It's Tucker and he sounds less than enthused by the scene playing out in front of him. His star student takes a step back and flattens the lapel of his jacket. He turns to his boss with a somber nod. Tucker raises a brow before he looks over his shoulder at Liv. "Sergeant Benson, what were you just saying about running a tight ship?"

"It's handled, Lieutenant." She juts her chin out, skips over her boyfriend, and gives you a hard look.

"Cassidy, let's go," Tucker orders as he walks past him.

"Boss, if I could have a few minutes to talk to Liv –"

"—May I remind you that you're on duty right now, detective," he says. "You can have your personal time when you've clocked out."

Cassidy looks tired of his shit though, ignoring Tucker and turning to Liv with an imploring look on his face. "Liv?"

"You heard him," she says with a sigh. "Go. Just go."

* * *

 _{drown if you want, and I'll see you at the bottom  
_ _where you'll crawl on my skin and put the blame on me, so you don't feel a thing}_

You make it through the rest of the day, barely. It's not because you're running around town chasing after leads, but because you're stuck waiting in the hospital. A class trip to the Met had gone awry and several children went missing for hours after a man disguised as a museum tour guide led them astray. It was Amanda who got the call, but Liv was quick to tell her to stay on her desk while Fin dealt with the perpetrator, and you and Liv spoke with the children and their parents.

After Amanda returned to the squad room following a series of meetings, she got an earful from her partner and her sergeant. The good news was she got to stay, her actions bearing no disciplinary consequences, only personal. There was no formal declaration she needed to go to mandatory retraining or that she was stuck on desk duty for the foreseeable future; whatever Liv was giving her now was just out of her own unwillingness to forgive.

At six, right on the dot, Liv gets a phone call from her boyfriend, making it known he's made dinner reservations at Moran's. The volume on her phone is loud enough that you can hear it in the quiet hallway of the hospital. You chuckle at Cassidy's attempt to iron out the little squabble you had earlier today. She glares at you before she heads down the hall, her hand cupping over her mouth and the receiver.

"Brian, one of our vics just got out of surgery and the doctor says he won't be up for another hour or two –" she explains, using work yet again as a reason to bail on the poor guy. "Yes, I know. Yes, he's here –" She glances over her shoulder and her eyes lock on yours. She sighs, coiling her hand around her ponytail. "Yeah, you're right… Ok, I'll meet you there in half an hour."

She turns around, the heels of her boots clicking with every step. She opens her mouth, likely to ask if you can stay and handle this interview on your own, which, of course, you can. "Liv, don't worry about it." And she gives you a tight smile. "It's the least I can do after I opened my big mouth. Not that I'm saying Cassidy didn't deserve it."

"Is that your apology?"

You sneer as you help her into her coat, picking up a piece of lint on her shoulder. "You know I'm right, so you _can't_ stay mad at me for too long."

"As long you keep trying to test that theory," she says, "I _can_."

It's late by the time you get back to the precinct. The only people around are the cops stuck with the night shift, tucked away in in the far corner. The usual busy spaces of the bullpen now look like a ghost town. Amanda is still at her desk though, alternating between glimpses at her laptop and the heap of open case files. As much as she probably doesn't want to admit it, she's doing all this overtime, partly to pay off her debts, but mostly to get back on Liv's good side. She's so concentrated on her work she doesn't notice you coming in.

You sit on the chair adjacent to her table and set down a brown paper bag. "I hope you like cheeseburgers."

She keeps writing in a cursive that winds and loops smoothly, never lifting the pen off the page until marking her punctuation – the final dot of ink bleeding through the page. "Thanks, but I'm not hungry," she says in a bored tone, her eyes never leaving the paperwork.

"You can spend the rest of the night on your diet of shitty coffee or you can choose to accept the kind gesture. Your call." You pull out two foil packages containing bacon and fried egg cheeseburgers from the sketchy food truck parked outside Mercy Hospital. The guy who owns the truck probably has a few too many screws loose to be legally permitted to drive that thing, but he makes the best breakfast burgers (and only serves them between dusk and dawn).

"Why are you doing this?" She drops her pen and leans back to look at you. You shrug in response, throwing her a sheepish grin. She ducks her head, but you can see the corners of her mouth turning up slightly. "I should be the one handing out peace offerings and apologizing."

Unwrapping the foil of the burger, the melted cheese and condiments ooze out of the sides. It'll only get messier once you bite into the yolk. This isn't exactly the best type of food for a first date, so it's a good thing that's not what's happening here between you and Amanda. "You've done enough apologizing today."

"You think so?" She narrows her eyes, skeptical of your statement. After all, it's coming from _you_. She bites on her lip and intertwines her fingers over her stomach. Staring down at her hands, she says, "I still feel like shit for lying to you and Fin."

"Really?" you ask, taking a bite out your burger. The bread has gotten soggy during the trip, but it still tastes like a coronary waiting to happen and nothing comes this close to satisfying your hunger. Using a napkin, you wipe your mouth and study the nervous expression on her features. "All those nights at Mickey's bar, before this whole UC operation, you were lying to me then and you seemed to be ok with it."

"Nick –"

"It's cool. You're sorry now because it's out in the open. You probably didn't plan for it to turn out this way, but it is what it is." You watch as she scratches the side of her neck. She still refuses to touch, what she referred to as, a _peace offering_. You want to tell her it's just a burger for a fellow hungry colleague. There's really nothing more to it than that; and you wish she would just take it and stop staring at it as if accepting it meant acknowledging the incident in the alley. "I get it… It's a touchy subject. Let's just move on. Start over, ok?"

She takes the foil package and slides it closer to her, a soft smile gracing her face. "Thanks."

"Just one thing," you start. "Promise me you're going to try to work your program. And if you have any problems staying on the wagon, come to me… or to Fin. Whoever you feel more comfortable with."

"I will."

You both eat in silence for a while. But you keep stealing glances at each other. And you wonder if, several hours later, the kiss is still fresh on her mind just as much as the faded flavor of whiskey still lingers on your lips. She had her leg wrapped around you, her fingers wound around your hair, her warm mouth locked with yours. But she's gone through so much in the last 24 hours; you can't possibly be that overconfident to think she's still reeling from it.

And even though, in the end, she revealed she was working undercover, you can't help but doubt the intention behind the kiss. When she made that first move, grabbed your face in her hands and pushed you up against the wall – was she just working you?

You swallow the carbonated burn down your throat as you set your drink down. "All right, I have one more thing," you begin to say. She takes a bite of her burger and cocks her head to the side, her tongue slipping out to lick the melted cheese on her upper lip. "Last night, when you kissed me… Was that all an act or did it mean something?"

"I – I don't know," she stammers and glances downward. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry it happened?" you ask mildly, hoping the reassuring close-mouthed smile on your face is enough to persuade her that you don't really care for your feelings spared. You just want her to be honest with you. She keeps her head down, lifting her shoulders before dropping them limply at her sides. "Fair enough. I deserve it for last time," you say. "Guess that makes us even."

Over the rest of your dinner, it's like you're back at the Lion's Head Tavern, sharing a pint. It's all light-hearted conversation with no mentions of gambling rings or stolen art. And for that, Amanda seems thankful.

It's a nice break. But, really, all it's doing is bringing back the kiss to the foreground. The way her eyes light up when she laughs. The way her nose crinkles when you say something offhand that shows just how out of touch you are with today's pop culture. Your kids already make you feel like an old man; you don't really need someone else to act appalled because you've never seen an episode of _The Baker's Dozen_.

"So, they're a Christian family with a million kids. Apart from the home-schooling and the purity balls, this sounds like every other family in the neighborhood I grew up in."

Amanda tries to argue that it's not just the religion and the outrageous disregard for birth control that makes the reality show compelling; it's how bizarre humans can be. She says it makes her life – even with the history of gambling, and her day-to-day as an NYPD detective – seem normal in comparison. You tell her nothing about her is normal, and you mean it in a nice way. But she gets this faraway look in her eyes, as if wishing for a real kind of normalcy. Whatever that is.

She chews on her lip and laughs quietly to herself, and you want to know what it is. It makes you want to sweep things off her desk in, for no other reason than to be dramatic, and kiss her.

But not here, and not now. You do hope it'll happen again soon. You're done lying to yourself about it. But with everything that's happened in the last few days, the timing would seem off if you pursued it. You wouldn't want her getting the wrong idea, as if you were taking advantage of her at a vulnerable time.

"It's late. You should be heading home," you tell her.

She props her elbows on the table and leans against her hands. "So should you."

"I am," you counter. "Need a lift?"

"I have work to do –"

"—We all have work to do," you interrupt, standing up to pick up the folders on your desk and throwing them in your drawer. "Come on. You never know who you're going to run into on the train at this hour so…."

"I can manage on my own," she says, rolling her eyes. "I'll be fine."

"Come on. It's on the way."

"No it's not," she laughs and you pick up on the low rumble that reflects last night's quiet moan against your lips. She notices you're staring and turns away; you look down in your lapse of awkwardness.

"I like driving this time of the night. Helps me clear my head."

"What's in it for me?" she asks.

"Uh, apart from not having to wait for the train and possibly being propositioned by a creep who hasn't bathed in weeks, you get the pleasure of my company."

"The F train is a straight shot home and I know how to ward off creeps on the subway." She gives you a smug look and stretches her arms on the back of her head, much like Fin does when he's talking about shooting a suspected perpetrator. "Besides, I know I'm already going to see you first thing tomorrow morning, so no thanks."

"I've got seat warmers and Zara's One Direction CD."

"Well, in that case…" she trails off, resting a finger against her temple.

"You're kiddin'? It's the boy band that wins you over?"

She laughs, rising from her chair and slipping on her trench coat. You help her find her sleeve, much like you did with Liv. Not because they need your help, but it seems to work by way of earning their forgiveness and gaining their trust. Your Ma always said it wouldn't hurt to be a gentleman.

She closes the laptop and files the folders into her drawer, ready for another date with desk duty Amanda tomorrow morning.

"It's not the boy band," she says, looking over her shoulder to throw you a smile. "My ass just can't say no to a warm seat."

You arch a brow as she walks away. You feel like you're fourteen again, succumbing to peer pressure, sitting on stoops while watching cute girls walk down the street. Biting down on your lip, you tilt your head to the side and watch the sway of her hips and the curve of her ass in those black jeans. You want to be childish, point a finger and cast the blame on her; she drew attention to it. She stops and turns around, her mouth curled up into a smirk. "Are you just gonna stand there, checking me out, or are you driving me home?"


	16. Unthinkable

**AN:** _To the guest reviewer who noticed that Nick wasn't as angry with Amanda at the end of Gambler's Fallacy, YAAASSS! I'm not alone. As usual, I want to thank everyone who reviewed the last chapter. Consider this chapter my show of gratitude to those who gave this story a chance and stuck by it sixteen chapters in. I hope you like this / I hope the wait was worth it :) :) :)_

 _Chapter title and {lyrics} are from Alicia Keys' Un-Thinkable (although I prefer City & Colour's cover as the acoustic-ness of it fits better with this chapter). Please read, enjoy, and review._

* * *

 **Ruined Beyond Redemption**

 **16\. Unthinkable**

* * *

 _{moment of honesty  
_ _someone's gotta take the lead tonight  
_ _who's it gonna be?}_

"My ass is on fire!"

"Cross that off the list of things I thought I'd never hear you say." You bite down on your lip to suppress the chuckle, catching her deathly glare from the corner of your eye. Scooting toward the edge of her seat, Amanda turns off the switch for the seat warmer. You can't help but break out into laughter as you see the unoccupied space behind her. "I can't believe it took you that long to notice."

"Hey," she calls out, a knot of irritation scrunching up between her eyes "Everything was perfect until it started barbecuing my butt."

Your laugh resounds within the walls of your car, in spite of the pop music blaring through the speakers. "I'm trying really hard not to say something inappropriate in response to that."

She arches a brow. "Amaro, I think we've both crossed that boundary of impropriety a long time ago."

Touché.

You continue your journey across the Queensboro Bridge to Long Island City, leaving the Manhattan skyline in the dust.

The stereo is belting out the pubescent sopranos of your daughter's current favorite boy band (her favorite is the one who looks the least happy to be there). When you first heard their album, you acted like one of those nostalgic snobs, unyielding to change and longing for the music of your youth. But, now, you hate to admit how much you enjoy those catchy pop melodies and simple-minded lyrics. Part of you still thinks it's pop propaganda implanted into the music; kind of like how kids in your school claimed Led Zeppelin's ' _Stairway to Heaven_ ' was a satanic anthem when played backwards. Like, if you were to play One Direction's ' _What Makes You Beautiful_ ' in reverse, you'd realize they were brainwashing young girls into buying their overpriced merchandise.

Or maybe there's no psychological conditioning embedded in their songs, and you're just finding a semi-rational excuse to explain for your (foolish) happiness.

"So what else is on your list?"

She breaks you out of your little head-trip; and you turn your head to meet her expectant gaze, your own eyes squinting in confusion. "What list?"

"You said you had a list of things you thought you'd never hear from me," she reminds you. And even though you both know there isn't an actual, tangible copy of this list, she still wants to know what statements would constitute as unpredictable coming from her mouth. "So, spill."

"I don't know… I guess I'd never expect you to say you're giving up coffee."

"True," she says with a firm nod. "Ok, what else you got?"

"Can't imagine you saying you hate dogs."

Rearing her head back, she purses her lips and scrunches up her nose. "That's too easy. Try a lil' harder."

"This is a lot of pressure," you tell her, your thumb stroking the line of your jaw as you mull it over. Amanda remains waiting for your next answer, her fingers tapping on her knee. "Ok, I got one." You brace yourself for what you're about to say, because you're aware it has the ability to shift the laidback mood of the car ride so far. The passive, agreeable voice in your head begs you to chicken out, because you don't want to lose this happy diversion from all of the previous days' events. If you say what's on your mind, then you risk Amanda clamming up on you. And even though you're in a moving vehicle, crossing over the water, you wouldn't put it past her to eject herself from the passenger seat.

"I don't think I'd ever hear you ask me for help," you say, glancing sideways to gauge her reaction.

The defensive walls may as well plummet like prison bars over her face. Not a sound – not even a breath – is released from her lips, until she turns her attention to the road ahead. She lets the words weigh down on her for a while, and hesitates twice to say something before she utters a weak response. "I've asked for your help before."

"Yeah, to reach for evidence boxes on shelves, and to ask for the quickest way to Jersey without having to take the Holland Tunnel," you reply. "Even when we're in the middle of a chase, you run straight for the perp, never asking for backup."

She tilts her head to the side and stares at you incredulously. "Nick, you're the same way," she challenges, and she has a point. It's that same compulsion to run toward the action that often gets you into trouble. Based on the last few years you've worked with her, you get a sense that Amanda following her cop instincts have to do with proving her worth, not just as a detective but also as a woman. You, on the other hand, jump the gun because you're a boy trapped in a grown man's body.

"Fine, you got me there," you say. "But unlike you, I've shared my personal crap and asked for your advice. And I'm not saying that just because I've opened up means I deserve to know what you've been going through; but had I known, I would've tried to help… You know, I thought with us hanging out after work, that maybe you trusted me enough to count on me."

"It's not you," she says quietly, with bowed head and slumped shoulders. "I don't wear my personal stuff on my sleeve like you do. Not that there's anything wrong with that." She holds her hand out as if to apologize. "I just… I don't share my problems because I have it in my head that I can handle it all on my own, which judging from what just happened, it's pretty fucking clear that I don't." She inhales deep, her eyes growing wide at her realization.

"That's behind you now," you assure her, even though she appears doubtful. "Moving forward, I want you to know that I'm here… if you need me."

* * *

 _{if you have something to say  
_ _you should say it right now}_

"This is it." She points to the five-story stone building, rows of arched windows adorning the façade. You park the car in a clear spot across the street as she unbuckles her seatbelt. "Thanks again," she says, "for dinner and the ride home."

"Don't worry about it."

She looks to you, a small smile gracing her face; and you wonder if she's just biding her time like you are. Your mind is running in circles trying to come up with reasons to prolong this evening. But it's almost midnight and Cinderella's close to curfew, and you have a fraction of Prince Charming's game. She pushes the door open, one foot sliding out to step on the pavement. "Good night, Nick."

"Night."

That twinge of disappointment returns again, like the fall of snow when the revolutions of the earth have promised spring. You don't know what lies beneath that disappointment other than the shallow wish to keep her company. And even though it's late and you're overworked and she probably wants to crash after an exhausting whirlwind of a week, you don't want the evening to end. When you get home, you know you'll have to face the firing squad that is your own conscience; so that's why you'd rather stay in the car with her. Awake.

Stay in with someone who helps you forget.

You shift the gear to drive and slowly lift your foot off the brake. A piece of glass on the passenger seat catches the light. It's Amanda's phone.

Rolling down the passenger side window, you call her, "Amanda, wait."

She's already on her side of the street, climbing up the stairs to the glass doors, when she hears your voice. She turns around, brows furrowed. You get out of the car and run around as she meets you.

Maybe your night's not over.

"You left your phone."

She holds her hand out and you lay it on top, your fingers barely brushing on top of hers. The warmth of her skin takes you back to the feeling of your face being cupped by her hands. You wax nostalgic as if it was some bygone experience, when, really, it just happened twenty-four hours ago.

"Thanks. I don't own an alarm clock so I would've been screwed," she chuckles softly. Cocking her head to the side, she stares and studies the dazed expression on your face. "Everything ok?"

"Huh?" You blink a few times, pressing your back against the car to adjust to her proximity. "Yeah."

"You just spaced out on me there."

"Sorry. I – I was, uh, thinking about last night," you explain, taking note of her arms crossing over her chest. "I know you said you didn't know if it meant anything or if it was just a diversion tactic, but I just have to tell you that I didn't regret it this time." Her eyes widen, not out of surprise but it's something more akin to fear. Her invisible defenses build up around her as her fist clenches, knuckles white, over her phone. And this is when your brain starts firing signals to perform some damage control. "Not to say the first time we kissed was regrettable, because it wasn't. It was just confusing. I mean, the one last night was confusing, too… God," you breathe out a nervous laugh. Wrapping your hand behind your neck, you lower your head. "This is probably the last thing on your mind right now, so forget I mentioned it."

"No," she says, holding her hand out to stop you before you can turn away. "I've been thinking about it, too."

* * *

 _{you give me a feeling that I never felt before  
_ _and I deserve it, I think I deserve it}_

You need to do it again. At least, one last time to be absolutely sure your reaction isn't all on account of being caught up in the adrenaline. You thought she was in deep trouble, that she could have gone to prison – it must have clouded your judgment.

But there's a physical connection that will continue to pick away at every cell in your body until it's further explored; and you know that's been there since as far back as January. There's still a chance that you could be wrong, that decency and discretion align with your desires. There's still a chance that your compulsion for following the path of impropriety won't matter, because maybe it wasn't as good as your panicked mind had remembered. But you'll never know for sure until you act on it (again).

As the silence stretches on, your eyes fall to her lips. Your own body knows it's on the verge of acting on an irreversible itch, and you can sense every spark along the nerves of your body. Reaching out to slide your hand around the small of her back, you gently draw her into your chest. And with a fleeting glance at her face, you check to see if she wants to run.

Slowly, lashes flutter up as her eyes lock on yours. But as soon as you close the distance, those brilliant blue orbs are sealed from the light. Her lips are soft and warm, caressing your bottom lip before letting go. She pulls away within a hair's breadth, a quiet opus of sighs falling between you.

Amanda's hand glides up the broad planes of your chest as your arm tightens around her. Your free hand pulls her in with the curve of her jaw. Kissing her again, this time with no intention of breaking apart so soon, you feel her moving closer until she's flush up against you.

As she coils her fingers around the tufts of hair on the nape of your neck, your lips part with a satisfied sigh, affording her the opportunity to slide her tongue into your mouth. You welcome her soft, languid exploration, reveling in her taste that leaves your senses swathed in a haze of pure lust.

Your hand slides from her jaw to her neck, tilting her head back so you can kiss her deeper. She releases a sigh that pulses against your tongue. And as you feel that stir between your legs, you expose her neck further, kissing her more roughly. Your entire body is prickled with tiny bursts of fire, relinquishing control to that primal ache that can't be satisfied until your bodies are one.

You don't care if there's a fucking parade in the middle of her street – you need her now.

A car passes by and honks their approval at your free show. Amanda extracts her lips, pulling back slightly to laugh breathlessly against your mouth. As much as you're enjoying your time out here, you both know you can't keep up with the exhibitionism, unless, of course, you both find some sort of manic thrill in being arrested for public indecency.

As if reading your mind, she asks, "Do you want to head in for a while?" Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, and you have to wield all your self-control not to let your own lips take over.

"Yea, I'd like that."

* * *

 _{it's becoming something that's impossible to ignore  
_ _and I can't take it}_

Keeping your hands to yourself while trailing Amanda up to apartment 3E is not the problem. It's trying not to let your paranoid brain psyche yourself out from doing what you feel is inevitable. It's not even departmental regulations that make you second guess what's about to happen; it's all the messy shit that tends to follow after sleeping with someone from the office. Especially when it's someone you consider a friend.

She pushes the key into the lock, and the moment you cross that threshold into her apartment, her dog comes to greet her. Frannie leaps up at Amanda's legs, and doesn't go down on all fours until she gets a kiss, cheek to cheek. When she gets down, Frannie circles around you, skeptical of your invasion into her territory. But something must click in her as she nuzzles her nose on your pant leg; perhaps, she remembers you from the other day. You scratch the back of her ear and she closes her dark eyes, whirring in delight.

"She likes you." Amanda's voice echoes from the kitchen. "It rarely happens that quickly."

You hang your coat on the hooks nailed to the wall, unearthing the Members Only jacket you lent her that fateful night on your stoop.

She peers over the top of the fridge door, her torso bent down as she scavenges inside. "Do you want something to drink?"

"No thanks." You decline the offer and note the flicker of reluctance in her eyes, before she disappears behind the door. You walk into her kitchen to study the scene – a variety of cereal boxes sitting on the counter. There's a glass jar of bone-shaped dog biscuits in a far corner, probably so Frannie can't reach up and knock it over. And there's a half-eaten blueberry muffin in a pastry bag along with two opened single-serve containers of butter.

Loosening your tie, you unclasp the first two buttons of your shirt and roll up the sleeves. You lean against the counter and watch as she pulls a bottle of beer. She takes a long swig and swallows it down with a hearty sigh. "Are you sure?" She holds the beer out as an offering.

You give her a tight smile. "I'm good. Thanks."

As skilled as she is at lying about her relapse, you've been conducting interrogations for over a decade and your intuition is so attuned to a person's nervousness. And she's tipping those scales. She slides past you, walking out of the kitchen. You follow behind her, but she stops abruptly, and you collide with her back. The beer sloshes in the bottle as she falls a step forward, your arm encircling around her waist to keep her on her feet.

"Sorry," you say.

"No. _I'm_ sorry," she says, turning around in your hold. You can sense that she's a little jumpy, but the last thing you expect is for Amanda to clam up and not be able to look you in the eye. As you were sweating over your decision to come up during those three flights of stairs, you were convinced that you would be the self-conscious, nervous, bumbling idiot. And yeah, you are all of that underneath this false face of composure. But it's as if this situation (with Amanda suddenly being so strangely resigned) is calling for someone to take control.

And it's the risk of what you're about to do that pushes you to act on it.

She ducks her head and wipes the gloss of her mouth with the back of her hand. "I didn't mean to stop –"

You lightly sweep your lips over hers, enough to stop her apology. As you start to pull away, she presses another one to the corner of your mouth. Long, dark lashes flutter open to stare at you, granting that unspoken affirmation that this can keep going. Your lips skim over the slightly parted perimeter, tasting the malt and hops mingled with her natural flavor.

Blindly, she sets the bottle down on a surface behind her. It hits the edge of an object and tips over, liquid pooling on the table before dripping onto the floor. But neither of you care, not when her fingers intertwine behind your neck and she pulls you down, sweet lips coaxing your surrender.

* * *

 _{I was wondering maybe  
_ _could I make you my baby  
_ _if we do the unthinkable would it make us look crazy  
_ _if you ask me I'm ready}_

Your kiss holds her in a tender embrace, picking up where you left off under the ghostly stars of a New York sky. Your palm slides up the length of her back, pushing your fingers through her hair and massaging the base of her scalp. A sigh of content eases from her lips, urging you on to continue the slow, carnal torture.

She's physically so close to you, but there's this primal need to have her closer, to be able to fully join skin to skin. Tilting her head back, her exposed neck allows your lips to drift to the column of her throat, where you pepper a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses.

Amanda's head rolls limply to one side, her eyes screwed shut and mouth parting in pleasure. When your tongue dips into the base of her throat, she moans; and it sends a hot stream of lust to course its way down your hardening length. You lavish her weak spot with more of your attention, acutely aware of every microscopic reaction to the brush of your lips, the lick of your tongue, the graze of your teeth. She whimpers, securing down on her bottom lip to restrain herself from making more of the sounds you're so desperate to hear.

Delicate fingers trace the outlines of your jaw. She holds your face and pulls you in for a lingering kiss. Her lips are firm with a pressure that tempts you to move this along into something less sweet and a little more wicked. And as she pushes her breasts up against your chest, rubbing them brazenly, you understand what she needs.

Running your hands down her sides, your fingers barely skim on her hips, to the back of her ass where you scoop her up in one fluid motion. She gasps into the kiss, short fingernails digging into your shoulders. You settle her back against the wall, and she wraps her legs around your waist for support. A growl escapes your lips as her heel digs hard into your lower back, pressing you further up against her keen body. It feels so ridiculously good to stand there snugly between her legs, letting her feel what she makes you feel.

"Nick," she murmurs, her body sliding down the wall just a little so your erection brushes against her sex. The moan that rumbles against your lips tastes so fucking delicious.

While one hand firmly kneads her ass, fitting your body securely in the space between her legs, the other starts working on sliding the blouse past her shoulders. The smooth skin on her stomach warms with your touch. Her legs coil strongly around your waist as your fingers brush over her bra, feeling the hardened peak concealed by a thin strip of lace.

Your mouth runs dry at the sight of her top half exposed, save for two triangles of black fabric. Her chest is heaving, two globes of soft, porcelain flesh just craving for your touch. You slide your hand between your bodies, cupping her breast, while your thumb lazily circles her nipple.

She pushes the back of her head against the wall, sheer pleasure enhancing the exquisiteness of her features. Your lips follow a path down the side of her neck, down to the dip above her clavicle; meanwhile, you continue to gently tweak her nipple between your thumb and forefinger. You're tempted to make her come this way alone; so impatient to see what her face looks like when she's at the edge of her release.

But she arches her back and pushes her hips to yours, and you can feel that molten heat through the inseam of her slacks. Without parting your mouth from her skin, your hand slips from her breast down to her stomach, feeling goosebumps rise in your wake. Reaching her belt, you slide the buckle off the first loop and deftly unbutton her pants. You haven't event touched her there and, yet, the anticipation is enough to threaten her calm as a guttural moan slithers from her lips.

You pause your kisses on her collarbone to watch the way her eyes fly open, brilliant blue rings giving way to dilated pupils. She tugs her lower lip between her teeth, as you slide your hand between her legs. She takes a sharp breath of oxygen, as your fingers slip underneath the band of her matching lace panties, caressing the smoothness of her mound. With your burning stare fixed on her eyes, you brush lightly over her clit, eliciting another moan.

She bucks her hips against the palm of your hand, begging to feel you again where she's most sensitive. But you have other plans as your fingers slip low to her lips – warm, wet, and waiting. Sliding two fingers along her slit, she bites violently on her lip as her eyes screw shut.

Supported by the wall, as her own legs would have given out by now, Amanda's hands grasp on to the twisted curls in your hair, connecting you to her. Slowly, you push your index finger into her tight heat, watching carefully as her cheeks grow more flushed by the second. When she doesn't emit a sound, you join it with another finger, and she releases the hold of her teeth on her bottom lip. With languid strokes, you push inside her, feeling her walls throb in a rhythm that leaves you both in a shared state of delirium.

You continue to fill her walls, stretching her out and thrusting at a quicker pace. She begins to peak as you feel the slick surface clench around your digits. Curving the tips of your fingers, you feather lightly against a rough patch and she mewls in response. A rush of fluid heat coats your fingers, but she's not quite there yet. As the pad of your thumb circles around her engorged clit, that's when she lets go. Wave after wave of her orgasm is shattering; her cry – a harmony of high-pitched and raspy moans as her body is wrung by the ministrations of your fingers.

Amanda rests her head on the crook of your shoulder, trying to regain her breathing, legs sliding limply off your waist.

"Was that good?" The question sounds stupid after you've uttered it; but you can't help but seek her approval.

She presses a soft kiss to your shoulder before lifting her head to meet your eyes. "You kidding? That was more than good… That was…" she trails off, before capturing your lips in lazy kiss.

Without breaking apart, she directs you toward her bedroom. You narrowly dodge a table with a vase of wilted flowers. Her heel nudges your ass as she reaches with one arm behind her to turn the doorknob. Hearing the click, you push her into the room, all the while your tongue never leaving the inviting confines of her mouth.

Standing over the edge of her bed, you lower Amanda down on the sheets, angling your body down, loathing the thought of separation. But she breaks the kiss to see what she's doing as she starts to work on shedding your clothes. Your tie is thrown across the room; the shirt is pushed off your shoulders. Reaching behind you, you pull the white tee over your head.

Amanda skirts her tongue along her lower lip, her eyes glazing over as she takes you in. You're not the kind of guy who spends hours on end at the weight machine at the gym, so your body is nothing to write home about. But you'd like to think you take pretty good care of yourself, so there's a surge of pride that flows through your veins when she seems to appreciate that.

You make quick work of your pants, leaving you in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. She swallows hard as her eyes drift lower, widening her stare at your bulge.

Leaning over the bed, you tear her dark jeans from her legs, leaving kisses on the cool skin on the top of her thighs, down to her shins until the fabric pools to a heap on the floor. You climb up the bed to hover over her body. You kiss her mouth – lingering, drugging kisses that leave your lungs aching for air. Your hands survey the planes and curves of her body, dragging up her ribs so one can cup a handful of her breast while the other slips behind her to unclasp her bra.

She's beautiful.

Under the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains, her milky skin glows. Her nipples are colored a soft rose, just a shade darker than her lips. Amanda yields control of the kiss so your mouth can explore along the length of her body. Your thumbs trace the tight circles around her nipples until they're stiff points; and in one fluid motion, you take one into your mouth. She cries breathlessly as your tongue laps around the bud, flicking until it hardens under your care. Moving your mouth to her other nipple, your hand kneads her soft flesh, feeling the warmth radiate from her entire body.

Your forearm is planted on her stomach and you can feel the temperature rise against your skin. You slide your hand lower, feeling the lace of her panties soak with her arousal. Sliding closer to her, you push your own arousal against the side of her leg, granting yourself a fragment of relief just by touching her. It's almost painful how much you want her, how eager you are to satisfy that animalistic urgency.

Your blow against the pert peak; the coolness of your breath contrasting severely with the heat of your tongue. Amanda shivers, her hips rising off the bed – an invitation for you to shed the last remaining piece of clothing on her undoubtedly sexy body.

You had some idea what she looked like underneath the loose blouses and the black pants; the male brain just went there sometimes. But _this_ had blown all those fabricated images out of the water. As you drag the flimsy material down her long legs, you can't help but be mesmerized by her nude form. Throwing her panties down on the pile on the floor, you reach down for the back pocket of your pants to pull out your wallet.

Amanda rests on her elbows as she watches you pull a condom. "You don't have to," she starts. "I'm on the pill."

You're not sure what to tell her, because you don't want to hurt her feelings and imply that you don't trust her. It's just that you were told the same thing almost eleven years ago by a woman you (also) weren't supposed to be sleeping with. Then, it turned out she had given birth to your eldest without your knowledge. Not that you regret it, because finding out about your son has been one of the best things to ever happen to you. But you just can't afford to take that chance again.

You're reckless sleeping with a co-worker; but you're not _that_ reckless.

"Better to be safe," you say, hoping she understands and doesn't feel insulted. Thankfully, she just shrugs a shoulder.

"Take 'em off," she instructs, gesturing to your boxer briefs. You tug them down to your knees, your throbbing erection springing out – the head dark and swollen. She tries to quell her surprise by pressing her lips together. "Oook," she says with a nod of her head, her eyes never leaving your groin.

You slide them off your ankles, getting back on your knees to face her. "What?"

"Nothing." She shakes her head with an impish smile, a crimson flush spreading across her cheeks. She sits on her heels as she tries to wrap her hand around the base of your cock. You hiss as her fingertips make contact, sliding her hand up and down like velvet across your skin. Her finger circles around the underside of the head, and a few drops of your arousal leak at the tip. She licks her lips, bending down to suck the head and sliding her tongue along the slit to clean you up.

"Amanda." Your hands grip onto her shoulders to stop the sensual attention she's lavishing on your dick. _God_ , you want this. You want to come undone by the spell of her mouth on you, but there's something you crave more desperately. She loosens her lips, doe eyes glancing up to meet your gaze. "I can't wait. I need to be inside you."

A smirk curls up on her lip as she leans back until her head hits the pillows. She bends her knees, opening them up for you; every last shred of shyness left out the door. Seeing her so confident, almost to point of being downright cocky, turns you on even more.

You slide the condom on and slowly sink between her legs, your damp skin sticking to hers. Amanda's rock hard nipples brush up against your chest as your forearms settle on either side of her head. Leaning down, you capture her lips in a kiss that grows even more ardent as she slides her body lower to stroke your dick with the slickness of her slit.

"In me. Now."

Her command ticks something inside of you, and your length thumps, by its own accord, against her entrance. She tries to buck her hips, but you press down on her mound while you tease her wet folds with the head of your cock. She writhes and groans in frustration, making this just as tortuous for you as it is for her. She's dripping, and her legs are almost in splits as she tries to open herself up to you.

It's all too much.

Ducking your head down to the crook where her neck meets her shoulder, you bite down as you enter her hard and deep. She cries out in pain, her fingernails clawing into your deltoids. Settling in place for a bit, you feel her grip begin to relax as her tight walls begin to pulse and adjust to your raw entry.

Gradually, you move your hips, until you find a speed and rhythm that makes her arch her back in pleasure. She feels so fucking good underneath you. And you want this to last for as long as your body can keep moving, but you know you're close to meeting your end if she keeps meeting you one heavenly stroke after the next. You breathe in her scent – fresh, clean skin and the floral, heady fragrance of her hair.

Amanda's heels dig into your lower back while her nails scratch and soothe the length of your spine. You groan, burying your face into her neck and sucking on the fragile skin. You thrust hard, balls deep, hitting the base of her cervix. She stretches her arms above her head and clings onto the bars of her headboard; knuckles white from holding on for dear life.

"Fuck… you trying to… kill me?"

You lift your head from her neck to cast down a salacious smirk. "No, just trying to make you come first."

She groans, pushing herself up on her elbows. "Switch places," she orders, rolling on top of you without separating your hips. It's quite a feat considering the glistening, slippery surroundings of your dick.

Straddling your hips, Amanda is a sight for sore eyes. You don't think you've ever seen a more erotic vision in your life, her breasts bouncing as she rides you toward euphoric oblivion. You take handfuls of her breasts and massage them as she continues to push herself down on every inch of you, flexing her muscles to ease out the husky moans from deep within your lungs.

Your hips snap against hers, the lower half of your body bucking to drive relentlessly inside her. You get closer and closer to completion every single time you hammer into her. Damp, golden hair brushes against your thighs as she throws her head back in indulgence, her torso stretching beautifully in front of you. It becomes almost too much to endure, seeing her and feeling her, that you sit up and rest your chin on her shoulder. Your arm runs along her back to push her hair up, while one hand slides along one ass cheek, guiding her movements as you speed up your thrusts. She's practically bouncing and flying off your dick now. Her mouth parts as she stills her own movements, tight walls pulsing and liquid heat pooling around your ruthless cock.

"Fuuuuuuck!"

"Yeah, you like that," you grunt, grinning against her skin almost maniacally, as you continue to drive into her. She shatters in ecstasy; the prolonged shiver of her body and the breathy moans of content tipping you over the edge. "Fuck, Amanda. I'm coming."

Pleasure streaks throughout every cell in your body as wave after wave of your cum shoots out of you. And _oh God, forgive you_ ; but it feels so sinfully fucking good. A shudder runs through you, your body tensing as the last drop empties before your muscles relax and your body melds into hers.

Amanda turns her head sideways to meet your eyes. Although you're slowly softening inside her, you're not quite ready to extract yourself from the warm comfort of her arms and her sex. Pressing your forehead against hers, a small smile forms across your face as you try to catch your breath.

* * *

 _{I know you once said to me  
_ _this is exactly how it should feel when it's meant to be  
_ _time is only wasting so why wait for eventually?}_

Side by side, you're collapsed on her bed. Your heart, just recently beating hard against your ribcage, is now falling into its normal state. From the corner of your eye, you watch as Amanda stares up at the ceiling, her hands resting over the flat expanse of her stomach. She's thinking about something, and if you can take a guess, you'd say her thoughts mirror what's going through your head right now.

Your partnership changes from this night forward. You're not foolish to think that you can pretend this never happened, and go back to being detectives on the same unit. And while a lot of little things – discreet glances and shared glasses of whiskey – have led up to this culmination of tension, there's still something so (wondrously) spontaneous about this night.

You'd like to think kissing her again and sleeping with her (at least once) was going to happen eventually, so might as well happen now to get it over with. But that sounds so crude. It's such a disservice to what this was… what this could be. It's not just some cheap, meaningless fuck.

Not with Amanda.

But as you're repeating the mistakes of history, your mind tells you this can't go beyond what it is, which is two people seeking that physical relief after a period of stormy seas. You're not seeking emotional intimacy; you're not seeking forever. And you'll bet your life that's not what she's looking for when she has her legs wrapped around you and she's crying out your name.

You and Amanda are ports in each other's storms. Satisfying each other's needs may be corporeal, but you swear there's companionship there; and that makes it seem a little less sinful in your conscience.

It's not just a one-night stand, but it's also not a promise of a future relationship.

* * *

 _{why give up before we try  
_ _feel the lows before the highs  
_ _clip our wings before we fly away}_

You've been lying awake in silence for a while when you finally roll of her bed. She shifts beside you, but doesn't say a word.

After finding your underwear on the floor, you slip them on followed by your pants. Looking over your shoulder, you see Amanda slip under the cerulean watercolor of her blanket. When you catch her eyes, she averts her head, turning on her side to face the window. Her hands curl up under her chin as she keeps her eyes fixed on the hazy glow of lights from the street.

You wonder if she regrets what you've just done. Her wordlessness and vacant stare is much too difficult for you to read.

Or is she upset with you because you're leaving?

Surely, that can't be the case. Not with the woman who asserts her independence every chance she gets.

Walking over to her side of the bed, you sit on the edge to look down at her face. "Hey," you say, sweeping her hair behind her ear. She flinches slightly, sealing her lids over her eyes; and you retrieve your hand. "I had a good time tonight."

Slowly, she sits up in bed, holding onto the blanket covering her from the chest down. "Yeah, me too."

"Amanda," you start, unable to find the right words to say that just because you're leaving now doesn't mean you want this to never happen again. Instead, you take a chance and lean over to kiss her. She reciprocates, tilting her head to rest her cheek against the palm of your hand. As you pull away, you lick your lips to savor the taste of her. "I don't want you to be under the impression that this was just a one night stand for me… I want to be with you again."

She presses her lips together in a nearly undetectable frown. Lowering her eyes to the rumpled blanket, she whispers, "Nick, I don't know if this is a good idea. This is wrong on so many different levels."

Her words feel like a stake striking through your ribs and splintering at your organs. Even though your conscience fully agrees with her. It's always reality and reason extinguishing whatever chance of happiness or comfort you have left. You slide your palms over the top of your thighs as you begin to rise. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

Before you can walk away, she tugs at your wrist, pulling you back down on the bed. Amanda crashes her lips over yours, kissing you with so much force that when she pulls away, you have to re-orient yourself in the dark space.

"I said it was wrong," she says, biting down on her lip. "I didn't say I didn't want it."

The blanket slips from the swell of her breasts, falling down to the delectable curves of her waist. Your hand cups her breasts, watching with hungry eyes as the pink buds harden with renewed arousal. Your own pants stretch to accommodate the strain of your mirrored lust.

Your mouth descends upon Amanda, and she has you undressed before you even had a chance of finding your tie.

* * *

 _{I can't say I'm prepared  
_ _I'm suspended in the air  
_ _won't you come be in the sky with me}_

It's almost three in the morning when you step out to her street. Your car is parked along the opposite sidewalk, four hours past overstaying its welcome. There's a stillness in her neighborhood that begs to challenge that old adage about the city that never sleeps.

Inwardly, you smile as you think about the last couple of hours, and how one night of sex has pushed your body to new kinds of limits. You're bones and muscles feel weak, but you're still yearning for more and more. And you would've gone again if you hadn't felt completely spent, and if her eyes hadn't been drifting shut as she came down from that last orgasm.

This time, as she curled under the blanket and burrowed her face into her pillow, you found the strength and resolve to peel yourself off the bed. You got dressed, watching as she fell in and out of sleep. You couldn't find your tie, even when you checked under the bed; but it wasn't like this was the last time you were coming over to Amanda's apartment.

You unlock the car, lights flashing on as you walk to the driver's side. Looking up to her third floor apartment, you see the orange glow of the lamp in her bedroom. There's a feminine silhouette behind the sheer white curtains, but before you can memorize the shape of her body, she backs away from the window, the silhouette turning into an amorphous shadow. And then, the lights turn off.


End file.
